


Purple Smiley Face

by scarletstring



Category: LOONA (Korea Band)
Genre: F/F, Hitman AU, and nine years old, choerry is adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 74,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23887258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletstring/pseuds/scarletstring
Summary: Reading through her mail each morning is always the same, instructions for the next kill riddled with information: their profile, location, date, and time. All in code summarized in numbers and letters and odd lines that mean nothing to anyone without a sharp eye and a knack for conjuring up conspiracy theories.Then comes a letter scrawled in with purple crayon and a smiley face.
Relationships: Choi Yerim | Choerry/Ha Sooyoung | Yves, Choi Yerim | Choerry/Kim Jungeun | Kim Lip, Ha Sooyoung | Yves/Kim Jungeun | Kim Lip
Comments: 222
Kudos: 702





	1. Predator

Yves receives a letter.

It's not like all the others she's used to; no fancy penmanship and words too superfluous, or crisp folds of a signature with a cringe sign of “— love, your secret admirer.”

Nothing like the ones she’s eager to read, curt notes of appearances and typical routes a target will take, or the fun challenges her handler likes to give— “aim with your eyes closed,” or “be a little messier; make them feel like you’re losing your touch.”

The letter's written on loose leaf, folded with crinkles and jagged lines that look like repeated mistakes before finally settling.

Yves didn't think she'd ever have to read a letter written with a purple crayon.

_(Hello, Miss!_

_You're so pretty. I'm glad you're my new neighbor. My mommy thinks you're pretty too. She says she's going to talk to you and bring blueberry muffins one day so you won't want to leave because we'll be friends, but it's already been 2 days._

_I'm writing this letter so it's not going to be 3._

_Talk to you later!_

— _Your Penpal,_

_:D Choerry.)_

First thing that comes to mind is that they spelled 'Cherry' wrong.

Second, does the mother know?

And third, they’re now penpals?

Yves snorts. The kid is eloquent enough, at least. Proper grammar (besides the word 'cherry') and punctuation. Even if it's all in that horrible thick purple crayon that it's hard to discern between an 'e' and a 'c'.

She'll forgive the disgusting penmanship if only because it's amusing to hear the implication of bribery just to make her stay.

Yves chuckles, folding the letter neatly back into the purple envelope before going off to continue rinsing her blood-soaked dress shirt.

It wouldn't hurt to read it again before bed.

—

The kid has purple hair. 

Yves blames her for why she's now thinking of a fake dinosaur who likes to sing about family.

She's just stepped out, off to work and clicking the door shut when she hears a yelp, quiet thuds followed by her mailbox clanking shut, catching tiny feet scurrying away behind her wooden fence.

Innocent eyes and a purple envelope peek above the gate.

No doubt the kid is waiting for her to go so she could leave the letter. She wonders if her mother knew what she was up to at times like these.

Yves figures it wouldn’t hurt to indulge in the little girl’s curiosity, sending a brief wave at her, smiles when she sees a hand hesitantly rise behind the fence, waving back with the envelope.

Later, as expected, she comes home to find the letter inevitably in her mailbox, along with an extra note scribbled at the end:

_(You weren’t supposed to see me!_

_:(_

_But you waved at me so it’s okay! Welcome back!_

— _Your Penpal,_

_:D Choerry.)_

—

The next time Yves sees her neighbor, it isn’t just Choerry.

She catches a flurry of purple hair and tiny legs dashing off for the school bus, haphazard wave thrown over her shoulder before she’s climbing up the stairs and disappearing behind the door.

Yves knows it’s Choerry’s mother who’s still standing on the sidewalk, watching the bus fade around the corner, before she’s off to her car, donned in business attire. Much like all the others Yves' already killed.

This time clearly won’t be any different.

She doesn't mean to stare (she’s got her profile already memorized), but when their eyes meet, Yves doesn't flinch if only so she doesn't look guilty, smoothing the awkwardness of getting caught with a timid wave.

When Yves receives a fleeting smile, she thinks it's no surprise where Choerry got hers.

Even if it isn’t by blood.

—

Weekends prove to be quieter, sort of; less curious eyes hovering over the fence and clanging mailboxes.

Choerry's letters don't arrive. Perhaps it functions the same way actual mail does — normally on weekdays (not that it's required considering Choerry doesn't need a mailman to get her letter sent).

She doesn't mind it though. Besides, Choerry's loud enough to hear through her bedroom window that Yves doesn't need to read scribbles made out of crayon to imagine what she'd say next.

_“Rise and shineeee!”_

Yves groans into her pillow, swears that with Choerry next door, she doesn’t need an alarm clock. Though it doesn’t change the fact that she definitely prefers the letters, instead.

—

Yves forgets that snapshots of her neighbors' lives come with both ups and downs.

Sometimes they're quiet, murmurs of anger and disappointment thrumming into her ears through footsteps stomping next door.

Sometimes they're loud, screams and yells and crying filtering past her walls. Her pillows muffle nothing.

_“You're not even my real mom!”_

Those nights, sleep escapes her. Choerry's hiccuped sobs and her mother's choked whimpers spill through her open window, thundering ache into Yves’ chest.

Choerry never mentions them in her letters.

—

The sun isn’t permanent on Choerry’s face.

Yves spots her slumped against the railing when she gets back, makes sure to tug down her sleeves so the bite mark from target #90 on her wrist doesn't show.

Choerry's on the steps, as if too weak to bother settling for anything more comfortable than cold iron and cement.

She’s not sure if she’s allowed to approach her; it’s not like they’ve been properly introduced, and it doesn’t help that Choerry’s a child. Her mother probably wouldn’t appreciate seeing her daughter talk with a stranger — even if she’s the neighbor next door.

Choerry doesn’t spare a glance, seemingly more preoccupied with picking at her shoelace.

Yves chooses not to ask. It’s none of her business, and Choerry looks like she’d rather not talk at all, so she leaves.

But not without greeting her a “good morning” and grinning when she finally sees a smile carve across the kid’s face.

—

She meets Choerry's mother at the coffee shop; her drink a harsh brown stain against Yves' burgundy button-down.

“I'm so sorry!”

It's sticky and it burns and Yves is undoubtedly late for work. Having to go with a splotch of imperfection on her tailored outfit will probably not help her blend in long enough to slit a business partner’s throat.

“It's okay,” Yves grimaces at bundles of napkins pressed against her stomach, thankful that her reflex of twisting a wrist doesn’t happen all the way, loosening her grip on the woman. Not yet. She’s not supposed to kill her just yet. “Really.”

“No, it's not.” Frantic hands scour for more tissues, movements poised with urgency it almost makes Yves panic even though it's literally just coffee. “I'm sorry, I've just been so out of it lately and I still have to pick my daughter up from school.”

“Then you should go,” Yves doesn't like the thought of Choerry waiting, “I'm fine. Seriously. Don't worry about it.”

A frown curls her lips, clearly not convinced.

Yves tries harder, notes the stray strands of auburn plucking out of the woman’s head, all in disarray like she’s just gotten out of bed, thrown on whatever was the closest to grab, and left before checking in front of a mirror to notice that her shirt’s inside-out.

“I’ve gotten coffee spilled on me before, so this isn’t the first time.” She attempts to lighten things up (it was the truth for the most part— when she shoved Target #93 off the rooftop yesterday), ease the wrinkles on her neighbor’s forehead. “Trust me. I got this.”

Yves watches her mumble more apologies before darting away with a promise of making it up to her one day.

—

Yves doesn’t know if she’s supposed to be getting used to this.

The grin breaking across her face almost hurts, catching the little girl nearly tripping on branches to hide behind a tree when she steps out, purple hair giving her away.

Yves pretends she doesn't see her, if only so she could watch from the corner of her eye how Choerry jumps and squeals when she pulls out her letter from the pile of envelopes and newspaper.

She heads back inside so Choerry doesn't have to stay out any longer than necessary.

_(Are you not going to write me back?_

_:(_

_I asked mommy why people don't send letters and she said it's a waste of time because there are cellphones now. Is that why you won't write me back?_

_Mommy won't let me have a phone until I'm older so please bear with me for a little longer! I get lonely and so does mommy so write back, okay?_

_Talk to you later!_

— _Your Penpal,_

_:D Choerry.)_

Guilt festers as fast as her want to find a piece of paper and pen.

She catches herself as soon as she jots down the first letter to 'hello', wondering if it's creepy of her to be writing to her neighbor's child. There isn’t really a point in forming a relationship with them either— much less the kid when her mother’s inevitably going to be a part of her tally.

She has half a mind not to bother replying, but glancing back at the sad-smiley face, Yves figures she could do something better. It wouldn’t hurt — she’s used to all the lies she’s promised others before; friendship, comfort, or something more. It didn’t really matter when she’d be off to a new city with a new start and a new name.

Tugging her jacket on, Yves goes out to buy a gift for tomorrow.

—

Yves fiddles with her nerves in one jean pocket, brandishing blueberry muffins in the other.

Knocks once. Then twice.

Pitter-patter of tiny thuds and an _“I got it!”_ before the door creaks open to purple hair and big innocent eyes.

Yves clears her throat. “Hi.”

Her nerves dissipate at the giant smile painting across Choerry's face.

“Hello, Miss!”

“I, um,” it's a far cry from her image of cool and composed, but Choerry's probably not the type to judge, so Yves doesn't need to pretend. “I'm here to say hello.”

Choerry giggles. “Hello, again!”

Yves chuckles. “Hello,”

“Yerim, what did I tell you about opening the door without me?”

Auburn cascades over slim shoulders, pulling Yves’ gaze from a childish smile to a terse frown that’s as unwelcoming as she’d expect.

Yves straightens up under her scrutiny.

“Hi, I'm the new neighbor. Yves.” She lifts her gift of blueberry muffins, catching innocent eyes from her peripheral sparkle with every movement. “I just thought I should say hello.”

The kid perks up. “Eevee?”

She frowns. “Yves,”

“Eevee!”

“...Yves.”

“I want a Pokemon name too!”

“It's not—” Yves pauses, realizes that the glow in her eyes means there's no point in arguing over something that's already been decided. “Never mind.”

Giggles worm into her ears. “Hello Eevee!”

The child seems too content with her new name to bother settling for the truth. Yves doesn't want to expend any more energy than necessary. Guess she'll have to get used to her new name.

She watches the mother's gaze flutter between Choerry (Yerim?) and the muffins, how she pulls Choerry a little closer so she's hiding behind her leg.

“Thanks, um,” the mother’s eyes narrow, Yves half worried that she’s done something wrong, when recognition laces her voice. “Wait, you’re…”

Yves jerks back when she’s bombarded by apologies a moment later, sheepish at the number of bows and sorrys spilling into her ears, confusion painting Choerry’s face.

“Really, it’s okay.”

She doesn’t know how many times she’s going to have to repeat herself, but the mother doesn’t seem to want to stop, not until Choerry’s tugging her sleeve and whining about how she’ll likely break her back if she bows any more.

“Just— sorry. Again.” Yves watches her straighten up, pink tinted across her cheeks; whether from the excessive motions or embarrassment, Yves isn’t sure. “I’m Jungeun. Kim Jungeun.”

“And I’m Choerry!”

Yves feels a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Nice to meet you.”

—

She wasn’t expecting to have dinner at her neighbor’s home.

It was supposed to be just dropping off muffins and exchanging a brief hello or two — maybe recite the story of why she moved here (business deals to close; often traveling, never in the same place twice) so her rehearsals with Haseul wouldn’t be a waste.

Leaving was the first option; Yves tried. Hard. But any attempts at reaching the door meant giant teary eyes and a heart-wrenching whine that Yves found more difficult to escape from than any close encounters with police.

“She really likes you,” Yves’ drying the dishes, Jungeun by her side at the sink when Choerry’s finally not tugging at the end of her jacket, settled in front of the TV. “She’s normally not this... _homey,_ with a stranger.”

Yves’ not sure if it’s smart of her to mention the letters. On one hand, Jungeun deserves to know — it concerns her daughter, after all. On the other, she knows that she’s the only one receiving it (at least, that’s what Yves hopes for — if only because she trusts herself not to do anything besides find it amusing and leave it at that).

Suspicion isn't hard to see in Jungeun.

“She seems like a good kid.” Yves settles for neutrality, scrubbing at ceramic.

“I'm glad,” Jungeun pauses, resting her hands at the edges of her sink. “It's hard though. Sometimes I'm not sure I'm good enough.”

Yves slots a plate on the rack. “But you are,”

“You don't know me.” Jungeun sounds as sharp as Haseul warned her she’d be.

“You take care of her,” Yves stops, reels herself in, makes sure she doesn’t mention the times she hears them through the window of moments when Jungeun and Choerry would laugh together, or whenever Choerry mentions her mother’s famous warm hugs in her letters. “That sounds pretty good to me.”

When she’s finally allowed to leave for home, Jungeun promising to properly make it up to her when she’s free, Yves’ tangled up in a hug and purple hair at the door — and a whispered threat into her ear that if she doesn’t come visit again soon, she won’t be getting any more letters for the week.

Yves laughs into her shoulder, ignoring the festering growth of something she’s learned to pretend doesn’t exist, and vows for a next time with a pinky promise.

—

Bumping into Jungeun occurs more frequently now.

Sometimes they pause for a short conversation, more out of common courtesy than an excuse to stall time and play catch up (which isn’t necessary considering they see each other too often even on the weekends — whether Yves’ mowing the lawn or Jungeun tending to the Gardenias and Carnations with Choerry).

Sometimes they don’t bother stopping at all, passing by with a glance and a polite smile just to acknowledge that they know each other enough for a simple greeting.

Yves wasn’t looking for a reason to get to know Jungeun beyond being her next-door neighbor with a kid too curious and eager to be friends. She already knows that whatever the client is concerned about with her, it’s enough to warrant her name on their hit list.

But a slap across the face and a burning print of fingers ghosting Jungeun’s cheek was all Yves needed to try and be acquaintances, at least.

She intercepts when a hand raises to hit Jungeun again.

“What the—!”

It’s hard to pretend she doesn’t know how to twist an arm and incapacitate with a flick of her wrist and a pivot to the right. But she’s not here to give up Haseul’s hard work of finally finding a place she could stay in and lay low long enough so she doesn’t exist.

“...Yves?”

Jungeun’s clutching her face that’s redder than the soft hue on her blouse, stunned frozen that she seems to have forgotten the purse she’d dropped from the impact.

“Who the hell are you?!”

Yves doesn't let him go, not until she makes it clear.

“Raise your hand one more time,” her grip tightens, “and you might never get to use it again.”

He doesn't buy her threat until she's digging fingers deeper into his skin, twisting just enough to have him crumpling to his knees; she makes sure everyone hears him beg.

He stumbles out of the café when she finally frees him with animosity on his tongue and a curse to be back next time. Not that Yves is worried.

She knows how to keep people quiet.

“I...thank you,” Jungeun looks sheepish, as if desperate to hide the reddening handprint on her face. “You didn't have to.”

Yves picks her purse off the tiled floor, handing it to Jungeun, making sure Jungeun's fingers properly grip the leather strap. She’s trembling.

“I'm your neighbor,” Yves cringes at the poor excuse, runs with it anyway. “Who was that?”

“Someone not important,” Jungeun sighs, as if to ease the jitters still rattling her skin. “My ex runs a business and I guess one of her loan sharks still thinks we're together or something.”

Yves doesn't recall this information on Jungeun's profile.

“Did you always know how to do that?” Jungeun appears less shaky now, though she hasn't let go of her cheek.

Yves decides it wouldn't look good on her part to leave her like this, tugging her wrist towards the nearest restroom.

“I took a few classes,” she says, squeezing water out of a bundle of napkins she's folded together before pressing it against Jungeun's pink skin. “Comes in handy, sometimes.”

Jungeun flushes. “Thanks. I always seem to be bothering you.”

Yves doesn't reply, instructing Jungeun to hold it down before she's straightening up, readjusting her collar.

“I should go,”

She should. The next window for her kill wouldn't be open for another forty-eight hours if she misses it. And she's been delaying her primary objective for three weeks already.

Which, if she's careful and discreet, could be completed right at this moment. No one else is in the restroom, and it's not like the elderly couple outside could do anything. The employees wouldn't really notice until it's time to clean or use it, either.

Haseul would appreciate moving on to another big job, anyway.

“Can you come over tonight?” Before Yves fully processes the question, Jungeun's already tripping over her words. “I—I mean, for dinner. You know. _Food._ Yerim would really like it.”

The thought that flickers in her head lasts only a split second— one too long, that Yves still grimaces it even existed. _What about you?_

Yves figures Haseul wouldn't mind waiting an extra week.

“Sure.”

—

Giggles wash over her ears for the next several days, bright and unabashed that Yves almost forgets she’s supposed to be more accustomed to strangled gasps and muffled screams than childish happiness.

“It’s a butterfly!”

Choerry’s running around in the yard, laughing and chasing after wings that can’t compare to the spectrum of colors in her hair — purple fading to hues of yellow and pink.

Jungeun settles beside her on the steps of her front porch. “Want one?”

The popsicle’s a welcome cold to the spring heat.

“Thanks,”

Yves glances at her watch; she has another hour before she’s off to follow a trail that’s supposedly long gone, which would never last considering Haseul’s love for details.

“You know, you're a lot quieter than I thought you'd be.”

Jungeun's statement doesn't sound like judgement— more of an observation that she just wants to say out loud.

Yves hums, sparing nothing else. It’s the truth, so it’s not like there was anything more to say.

She feels her neighbor scoot closer, fidgeting with the wooden stick of her ice cream. Yves wonders what has her so nervous.

“Would you, um, be up for a movie or something, sometime?”

Yves turns her head. “Why?”

Jungeun laughs a little, scratching at her cheek. It isn't imprinted with a red palm anymore.

“I told you, didn't I? That I'd make it up to you, somehow.” She shrugs, tucking strands of auburn behind her ear. “Sorry it's taken so long.”

“It's fine,”

“But I'm serious, you know. I want to make it up to you.”

Yves shifts, uncomfortable that Jungeun’s attempting to close the distance between them— figuratively and literally, if the knee bumping her leg every once in a while was any indication.

“You don't have to,”

“You've helped me out more than once. Besides, we're friends, right?” Jungeun nudges her shoulder; it's odd, the sensation that jolts from her warmth, pooling in her chest as if to nestle there. “So it’s fine. Okay?”

“Yeah!” Choerry chirps from where she sits by the flowers, giggling, sun kissing her skin along with the pink coloring her cheeks.

Yves gives in so she's allowed to leave, a defeated sigh slipping from her lips because staying any longer meant listening to their triumphant cheers and happy laughter.

Which wouldn't have been so bad if looking at their smiles wasn't making her feel dizzy with dread.

—

Yves stands at Jungeun’s bedside half past midnight, watches the calm rise and fall of her chest, the easy way she breathes— with ease like the twist of the latch on her bedroom window.

There are several ways she could go about this; loud or quiet, clean or messy, swift or terrifying. But she’d rather not stick around long enough to deal with the chaos after, hear the screams that would come from Choerry when she inevitably stumbles onto the scene much later, registering a nightmare come true.

Thankfully she’d be on a plane to Costa Rica by the time that happens.

Yves raises her gun.

“Mommy?”

She ducks the moment the blankets shift and Choerry’s head slides up beneath the covers, hears Jungeun mumble _“Yes, baby?”_ before the sheets fumble and spread over the edges of the bed.

Choerry’s groggy _“Can’t sleep”_ has Yves crouching lower when Jungeun sits up, sliding under the mattress the same time Jungeun pulls the blankets up, matches the rustling of cotton and silk so her movements blend in.

“C’mere,”

The bed creaks, sheets ruffling before it settles and everything stills.

To think Choerry had been sleeping right beside her the entire time; Yves ignores the chilling tremor in her chest.

She listens to the soft hum of their breathing, knows it’ll take a bit more time before it’s safe enough to slip out and complete her objective.

She lays there, stares up at the tiny flecks of dust and wood beneath an old but sturdy support and thinks—

“...Do you think Mr. Snuggly Six-Legs will be okay?” Choerry says, voice heavy with sleep.

“...Of course,” there’s a yawn, the bed creaking before it quiets again. “It’s a cockroach. They’re hard to kill.”

“...That’s good.”

—this isn’t supposed to be difficult to do.

Yves listens to the silence that stays before sliding out, stands for another attempt at a job that’s far too easy, raising to aim— and hesitates.

She watches the family of two hold each other close, her mind’s eye picturing an alternate reality where she had pulled the trigger; she wouldn’t have been on a plane to Costa Rica by the time Choerry found out.

Her chest lurches, throat tightening, feeling uneasy and nauseous and dizzy all at once. Yves returns to the window and twists the lock open, escaping a prison too warm that it’s suffocating.

Ironic that she came here to kill just to leave feeling like she’s the one dying.

—

“There's a spot over there,”

Jungeun tugs her up the stairs, dodging pieces of popcorn littering the floor up to the seats in the last row.

They squish in between two pairs of lovers busy with each other's faces, something Yves thought they'd at least wait to do until _after_ the previews start.

Jungeun pulls her sleeve. “Come on, it's comfy. Or at least, as comfy as it can get.”

Yves holds onto the bag of popcorn, not as eager to eat the fluffy deformed balls of early salty death as Jungeun. It's foreign to have someone lean over so close, even if it's just so that Jungeun could reach for the food.

She's had jobs that required her to be physically close, but nothing's made her stomach churn more than when Jungeun's arm brushes against her sleeve.

Yves tries to stay away.

“Here,” she hands the bag over to her, knows it's the only way to keep Jungeun from getting any closer. “Looks like you need it more than me.”

Jungeun whines, nudging her elbow. “Hush, you.”

The movie barely starts when Yves already makes up her mind knowing she's not going to be interested in any of it. A hero who somehow manages to get through every obstacle without hints of a struggle? Ridiculous. But it’s perfect because that means she could rest, let her eyes draw shut and relax before the next kill scheduled for tomorrow.

But then there's warmth on her shoulder.

“I'm getting kind of sleepy, too.” Jungeun mumbles, faint and tired, like the day's finally catching up to her.

Yves' suddenly awake and all too aware of when the curtains finally close on Jungeun; how her breathing slows to a quiet constant, steady like last night, her hold on the bag loose enough that it's left crookedly standing in her arms.

Yves is careful to pluck the bag of popcorn out of her lap so it wouldn't spill, gentle so her movements don't wake her, but bothered because it shouldn't even matter to her.

Worse is that she can’t help but still be gentle when she shakes Jungeun awake as the credits roll an hour later, ignores the strange impulse to push strands of auburn off her eyes when Jungeun blinks up at her; drowsy and apologetic and grateful—

“You’re drooling,” Yves says, aware of how her heart quickens at Jungeun’s lazy smile.

— they’re just another pair of eyes. No big deal.

Jungeun’s giggles come out airy against her shoulder, sprinkling heat through her sweater.

“...Shut up.” She rubs at her eyes, latching onto Yves’ arm when she stands, wobbling to keep upright. Jungeun’s touch burns her elbow. “Not my fault you were comfortable.”

Yves slots the spark of pride stuttering in her chest away in the crooks of her mind, pretends it isn’t there so she can at least guide Jungeun’s sleepy steps out of the aisle and down the stairs.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you next time.” Jungeun says at her doorstep, bidding her a goodnight before she disappears behind her door, Choerry waving through the window with her babysitter.

When Yves receives a text from Jungeun two days later (for a second, she regrets exchanging numbers that first dinner), asking if she’s up for having lunch together, Yves hates how she doesn’t want to say no.

—

“You’re terrible at keeping promises,” Yves says.

Jungeun huffs.

“Normally I’m not this bad.” Yves quirks a brow. “Really. Don’t look at me like that. I just tend to have a lot of bad luck, okay?” Jungeun grumbles, picking at the chicken that has an odd taste to it. “I can’t believe they could even screw up chicken.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to make it up to me again,”

Jungeun rolls her eyes. “Obviously,”

Yves sighs; this should’ve been dealt with a long time ago. “Seriously. It’s fine. You’ve already more than made it up to me.”

“By screwing up every time?”

“You haven’t screwed up,”

Jungeun counts off her fingers a list; Yves’ more impressed that it manages to reach both hands.

“One, movie was terrible and I fell asleep on you. Two, I didn’t know the restaurant closed that early. Three, Yerim wouldn’t stop crying about wanting to come along…”

Yves lets her go on, if only so she could listen to the lilt in Jungeun’s voice, how her forehead crinkles when she frowns, the sharp purse in her lips when she’s upset that things haven’t gone her way.

“So yes, I’m going to make it up to you. _Again._ ”

When they leave the restaurant and have to cross the opposite way, it doesn’t escape Yves the gentle squeeze Jungeun gives her hand, or the longer hug before Jungeun finally lets go.

There’s a voice in her head nagging at her, feeding her brain that maybe, just maybe, all these promises might only be an excuse to keep this — whatever this is, up.

What scares her more is that she hopes it’s true.

—

She hears a farewell between mother and daughter, a concept so foreign that Yves doesn’t believe it until she sees Choerry do the one thing she thought she’d never do. Leave.

She didn’t think Jungeun even had the heart to let go.

_“Bye Yerim! See you Sunday, okay?”_

_“Okay mommy!”_

Yves raises her head, blinking slumber-haze away, the sound of thudding footsteps and Choerry’s giggles filtering through the open slit of her bedroom window.

Between the curtains she spots a woman dressed in blue and a white smile, Choerry skipping beside her, holding hands like they were always meant to be together.

But she isn’t Jungeun.

Yves doesn’t recall reading about a woman with a sharp jawline and dark fringe, flipping through memory films for a single moment in the letters Choerry always sends. She didn’t think a stranger that never graced between the lines Choerry loves to write would be familiar enough for Choerry to voluntarily disappear with.

It’s not until the blue sedan fades around the corner that Jungeun leaves her porch.

_Wait—_

Yves stumbles backwards, nearly falling off the edge of her bed when Jungeun starts walking towards her house instead of her own.

What could she possibly want?

She scrambles out of bed in a heap of tangled sheets looped around her ankle, kicking them off as she twists in the direction for the front door.

Yves skids to a stop by the living room at the sight of her bag opened and her firearms and magazines scattered about on the couch. She knew she should’ve packed them all away before heading to bed last night.

_Knock, knock._

“Yves? It’s me, Jungeun.”

“I-I’ll be right there!”

Yves shoves them into the bag as fast as she can, lugging it back to her room, zooming for the closet and dumping it behind her curtain of clothes before swivelling back to the door, tripping on slippers.

It’s only when she opens it to a sheepish smile and auburn curled behind Jungeun’s ear that Yves loses every rational thought—and her footing.

_Thud._

“Wha— are you okay?!”

Her back hurts and so does her pride, but having Jungeun loom over her with worry etched into her eyes has Yves scrambling back up to make sure it doesn’t stay.

“Yeah, yeah, just— you know, having a rough day.”

Jungeun’s grip around her wrist is way too warm. “...It’s only eight o’clock in the morning.”

Yves grimaces. “...Right. I’m just – I’m not a morning person.”

Yves’ flustered at how Jungeun’s laugh makes her feel: stomach tumbling, fingers trembling, heart racing.

“I can tell,” It worsens when Jungeun reaches out to her, brushing ebony hair strewn across her eyes and smoothing the creases on her shirt. Too close. She’s way too close. “You even lost a sock.”

Yves looks down.

Huh. That’s a first.

“I’m…” words fumble on her tongue, distracted by how Jungeun’s hands have yet to let go of her shirt, sinking heat through cotton and into Yves’ stomach. “...I’m not usually like this.”

Nervous wreck wasn’t part of her resume.

Jungeun smiles, her grip finally loose, setting Yves both free and on fire for how her warmth still lingers like a ghost on her skin.

“I know.” Jungeun pauses, gaze dropping to a spot on the floor, rubbing her nape. “Sorry if I startled you.”

“It’s fine,” besides the mini-heart attack and getting her tripping out of bed, of course. “Is there something you need?”

“Oh, well, um.” Jungeun fiddles with the ends of her sleeves, rambles on more than Yves’ used to. “If it’s not too much trouble, would you like to hang out today? We could go shopping or play at an arcade or I could tour you around the city—if you’re still not familiar with it, or something.”

Yves suspects her list of plans are linked to Choerry’s absence— that maybe Jungeun’s never had to be alone for so long, or maybe she just has time to kill and gets to finally be free to do whatever she wants without a kid to look out for.

Regardless, Yves wishes she didn’t mean what she said when she told Jungeun: “Okay.”

—

Yves expected Jungeun’s promise of spending the day together to be just that. A _day._

Not the entire weekend.

The Sunday sun has nothing on Jungeun’s fleeting smile; shy and small and barely there that Yves only catches it because she never bothers to look anywhere else.

Brown locks twirled around a finger, the other hand hidden in her jean pocket, gaze never breaking away from the ground; it’s hard to miss how shy Jungeun’s being when she’s also teetering a foot on the tip of its toes.

Her quiet voice doesn’t help. “...Are you free today?”

Why it has Yves’ heart drumming against her eardrums, she doesn’t have a clue. And she’d rather never know.

At least she didn’t trip on the way to the door today—or fall backwards.

Saturday was fine. In fact, it was begrudgingly a fun experience. She didn’t think anyone could be that bad at an arcade game, especially when Jungeun boasted about knowing how to dance. But she lacked the coordination to step on the arrows and it made Yves laugh more times than there were numbers that made up her kill count.

“Um…”

Yves has no problem being the friend Jungeun keeps hoping she could be.

But there’s a nagging feeling in the back of her head that Jungeun’s looking for more than friendship and that’s an issue Yves’ afraid to solve.

“It’s okay if you’re not,” Jungeun’s stepping back, an embarrassed smile drawn across her lips and eyes. “You probably want at least one free day to yourself anyway. I get that.”

Yves isn’t sure if that’s what she wants.

She thinks about the messages Haseul left on her phone waiting to be read, about how she should get a move on, finish the job, snatch a bigger contract.

She thinks about how there’s nothing else except targets to track and a bed to sleep in.

But by the time the answer comes to her, it stays in her mouth, watching Jungeun bid goodbye like she’s used to running away before slipping behind her gate, disappearing into her home.

Yves knocks on her door fifteen minutes later, dressed in the clothes Jungeun chose for her yesterday (more like insisted she should have) during their shopping spree, resisting her lips from breaking into a grin she isn’t used to wearing.

As soon as it swings open, Yves doesn’t wait for the surprise to leave Jungeun’s eyes, irrationally determined just to make her smile again, see even a peek of white, _anything—_

“I never said I wanted the day to myself.”

—when it comes, pearly whites paired with a laugh too loud that’s never less charming, Yves watches Jungeun wear happiness like nothing else fits her better.

—

They’re three pop drinks and a bowl of popcorn in by the time the sun comes down, lounging in front of a screen watching the credits roll for a romantic comedy only Jungeun paid attention to.

Yves’ all too aware of how distracted she’s been with the woman next to her wearing a hoodie she was forced to pick out for Jungeun (a matching set, though Yves makes sure hers doesn’t leave the house).

“Thanks for keeping me company this weekend,” Jungeun’s on her fourth swig of sprite, blanket draped over her legs, snuggled in oversized red cotton. “You made it go by pretty fast.”

Yves frowns. “...How?”

Jungeun blinks, chuckling. “You made me forget I didn’t have Yerim around, for the most part.”

“Oh.”

“It gets a little lonely without her,” she brushes her hair back, scoffing at the ceiling. “It’s a good thing her visits don’t happen that often.”

Yves knows it’s an opportunity to ask, inquire about the woman that had Choerry skipping away from home, but she picks up the muffled sound of an engine running, gravel cracking under pressure before a door slams and the pitter-patter of footsteps trickle up the porch.

“Mommy, I’m home!”

Jungeun jumps for the door, blanket twisting around her waist, draping over her knees, barely hanging on.

As soon as it opens, Choerry’s lunging for a hug Jungeun’s too eager to give, watches her crouch to hold her tighter, their laughter bright that Yves wonders if happiness has always been this contagious.

She keeps the smile from bleeding across her mouth, preferring to keep within her peripheral the woman still silent by the door.

“Did you have lots of fun?” Jungeun pulls back, tucks purple strands behind Choerry’s ear.

“Yup! We went roller-skating and ate ice cream and played lots of Mario Kart!” She leans in, cups Jungeun’s ear as if to tell a secret but she’s not any quieter than before. “...Mama isn’t very good at it.”

Yves swallows her surprise. _Mama?_

Jungeun shares a high-five with Choerry before standing, addressing the woman who only offers an elusive smile.

“Thanks for bringing her home on time.”

The woman waves her hand, meets Yves’ gaze briefly that the only reason Yves catches it is because she never stopped watching her in the first place.

“Don’t mention it.”

Yves recognizes the question scattered across her eyes, curiosity flickering from the unsure smile she sends her way; Jungeun seems to notice it, too.

“Oh, right. This is Yves, the new neighbor.” Jungeun gestures to the woman, “Yves, this is Jinsol. My ex—”

“— _Wife,_ ” Jinsol says, bowing, polite and amiable. “It’s nice to meet you, Yves.”

Yves returns it, not sure of how to take the atmosphere brimming with smoke the moment Jinsol interjected. It’s not quite suffocating, but it’s thick enough that she doesn’t have to look for it to know an ember has already started.

“Likewise,”

Jungeun clears her throat. “Well, it was nice seeing you Jinsol.”

“Making me leave already?” A frown adorns her face, eyebrows slanted that Yves’ impressed at how expressive her features could get. “Not even an offer for dinner?”

Yves glimpses at Choerry rubbing her eyes, yawning and blinking sleep away behind Jungeun, attempting to keep her head up but she’s already starting to nod off.

“I should get going, actually.” Yves says, pulling her jacket off the coat rack. Besides, she’d rather not stick around with someone who’s part of a much larger piece of Jungeun’s life. “It was nice meeting you, Jinsol.” 

“Already?” Jungeun says, shifting to turn to her.

Yves moves to catch the blanket dripping past her waist before it falls.

She realizes her mistake the moment Jungeun breathes out her name, her breath fluttering against her skin.

“...Yves?”

She blinks, arms pausing halfway around Jungeun to tie it back before she hesitates, recognizes the breath tickling her neck. To think she’s already practically hugging her— what was she thinking?

Yves recalls the woman by the door; The _Ex?_ The _Wife?_ Before finally pulling away, glares down at her own feet because how dare they move on their own, ignoring Jungeun’s gaze burrowing a hole through her forehead.

Jinsol’s eyes are just as scathing on her cheek.

“Here,” she loops it over Choerry’s shoulders instead, hears the child mumble _thank you Eevee,_ before she latches tighter onto Jungeun’s leg.

When she finally lifts her head, Jungeun has a look Yves can’t decipher; it’s nothing like the stares Jungeun would do when she thinks she hasn’t noticed, or the brief glances that tend to linger longer than they should.

Yves would know. She does the same thing.

Words seem to culminate behind Jungeun’s lips, mouth moving as if to speak, like she’s finally found the letters to define whatever this is, before Jungeun pauses as if to catch herself, gaze flitting between her and Jinsol.

She bites her lip.

“You know what? You’re right, it’s getting late.” Jungeun grips Yves’ elbow before she gets to leave, halting her. “...Thanks again for keeping me company, by the way.”

Jungeun squeezes her arm, whispers _goodnight_ too close to her ear that it breezes into her eardrums, tickles the skin there to a stand; Yves hates how it makes her shiver.

Jinsol arches a brow, pouting. “That’s too bad. I was hoping we could all have dinner together.”

Yves just smiles. If any of the exchanges irked Jinsol at all, she doesn’t show it.

She doesn’t know why Jinsol’s presence bothers her. Maybe it’s the fact that she doesn’t know her at all— foreign and different and someone so close to Jungeun and Choerry that she’s annoyed she doesn’t know a thing about her.

Why hasn’t Choerry mentioned her in any of her letters?

“Hey, wait up!”

Yves’ on the sidewalk by the time Jinsol catches up, a breathless laugh escaping Jinsol’s throat when she’s close enough to count the creases between her brows.

“Yes?”

“Which one’s your house?” She pauses, waving her hands, frantically shaking her head. “Oops, sorry, I mean, I’m not going to stalk you or anything. Just wondering if it’s a bit of a walk because I could drive you there.”

Yves points at the house next door.

Jinsol rubs her neck. “Oh,”

She shrugs. “Thanks for the offer though.”

Jinsol nods, about to turn to her car before she pauses mid-step, brows furrowed and lips curled into a pout; Yves would’ve considered the combination to be cute, if it weren’t for the question that left her lips.

“Did Mr. Park move out?”

How curious.

Lies pile up easily on her tongue. “I would think so, considering I moved in.”

“Right,” Jinsol hums, tilting her head. “Was it for sale?”

Yves knows when she’s being interrogated. If Jinsol keeps this up, Jungeun won’t be the only one on her hit list (but Jinsol would _definitely_ be the first to go).

“A friend told me about the house,” she shrugs. “Don’t know more than that.”

It isn’t really a lie. Haseul _is_ the one who showed her the house.

Jinsol keeps her gaze for a little longer, scrutinizing, how her lips curl downwards and flutter for a moment – as if there were words waiting to fall out, before finally turning away, waving over her shoulder.

“All right, well, goodnight! Maybe next time we could have dinner together.”

Yves watches her go. She dials the number that’s been in her memory long since she first learned how to kill.

The line clicks open.

_“Sooyoung? What is it?”_

Jinsol’s eyes hadn’t been anything special; nothing deep like Jungeun’s or bright like Choerry’s. But they were different – and unsettling. Like a pair of eyes that knew too much.

“Haseul, I need you to look into something for me.”

—

Mornings aren’t spent waiting for the school bus to come by. But Yves chooses to try for once, courtesy of her motor function overriding any logic her mind can come up with in favor of a woman who should be dead by now— and her little girl.

“Sorry about last night,” Jungeun says, shy beside Choerry, scratching at her neck as they wait for the school bus to come by.

Yves spares a few minutes with them, feet inclined to keep her closer to the two even when her mind’s been nagging her to do the opposite. Haseul would kill her if she knew.

“What are you apologizing for?” Yves didn’t think Jungeun was the type to spout apologies so often.

Jungeun kicks at a piece of gravel. “I don’t know. The awkwardness? With Jinsol, I mean. Just— _everything._ ”

Yves doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s not like it isn’t true. But she’s not going to blame Jungeun for the trouble that Jinsol voluntarily offers.

“Missed you, Eevee.” Choerry’s fingers slither their way into her hand, sandwiches herself between her and Jungeun. “Did you miss me too?”

Yves chuckles; this is different – to be this open, but it doesn’t feel out of place.

“Not even a little bit.”

Choerry whines. “Eevee!”

Their arms swing as they wait for the bus. Yves pretends she doesn’t feel the stares when it rolls to a stop in front of them, the driver putting on a pleasant smile as the door opens.

The kids peering through the windows aren’t as subtle, their not-so-hushed murmurs echoing into her ears, tiny fingers pointing in their direction.

“Ready to go?” Jungeun doesn’t appear fazed by it, tugging Choerry forward.

Yves attempts to let go but Choerry squeezes their grip, swinging their arms as she skips to the steps, bubbly like it isn’t seven-thirty in the morning.

“Bye mommy! Bye Eevee!”

It’s the first time she watches Choerry go – properly, like she’s a part of this; the image of her fading into the distance tugs at her chest.

Is this how Jungeun feels whenever she watches Choerry leave?

“Come by for dinner tonight,” Jungeun nudges her arm, playful smile painting across her lips. “I was going to offer that yesterday too, but, well.” She shrugs, as if saying Jinsol’s name more than once is taboo. “Anyway, Yerim would love it if you could make it. She wasn’t kidding when she said she missed you.”

Yves raises a brow. “What about you?”

Jungeun shoves her, scoffing and turning away as if it’d hide the red colouring her ears any better.

“...Do I even have to say it?”

Yves laughs. She has a point.

—

“Nothing?”

_“Completely clean. Or empty. Whatever.”_ Haseul hums, papers shuffling in the background. _“All I’ve got is that Kim Jungeun is a single-mother who adopted a nine year old kid. Besides the fact that she’s wanted dead, nothing in her file mentions a wife. Or ex.”_

How annoying. It’s not like Jungeun would go out of her way to make it all up, and Jinsol didn’t seem to be joking when she said it herself, either.

“Then who’s Jinsol?”

_“No one,”_ Haseul pauses, _“for now.”_

Yves knows that tone.

Haseul only ever uses it when she’s hit a dead end, her mind whirring for the next step, the cogs in her head no doubt running on curiosity and the inability to accept that there’s nothing on someone who clearly exists.

Her voice hints that she’ll make sure it doesn’t stay that way.

_“I’ll let you know when I find something.”_

—

Mornings don’t normally get her jolting out the door.

Panic squirms through her limbs, jumpstarts her heart the moment she hears a scream erupt next door, shrill and piercing that Yves scrambles from her desk scattered with ammunition and disassembled gun parts to check up on a pair of troublemakers that have somehow managed to make a home in her head.

She finds the front door open, another shattering cry bursting into her eardrums as soon as she steps in. Yves sprints down the hall, hears Jungeun’s frantic whimpers of _“Nonononono!”_ from above that it has her thinking of nothing else but her safety and Choerry’s.

Dashing up the stairs two steps at a time, fingers desperately gripping on the railings to help launch herself up quicker because Yves’ heart is lodged in her throat and she can’t yell Jungeun’s name— let her know that she’s _here._

Yves barrels through a closed door, ignores how it falls under her weight, thudding hard against the wooden floor, feet skidding to a stop the moment her eyes land on Jungeun and Choerry.

She blinks. Then rubs her eyes, blinking hard to make sure she’s seeing right. She isn’t sure what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t Choerry carrying a—

Jungeun screams, ear-shattering and shrill. “G-Get that thing _away_ from me!”

— a cockroach.

Jungeun swats at empty air, eyes shut tight, petrified and crouched in the corner between her bed and closet, Choerry cackling with happy laughter at her mother’s expense. 

Yves doesn’t know where to look. Or how to feel.

“But he’s so cute!” Choerry coos at the insect cradled in her hands, spins without warning to show Yves that it has her jolting back, a yelp squeezing through her throat, nearly tripping backwards over the fallen door. “Isn’t Mr. Snuggly Six-Legs cute, Eevee?”

First, what an obnoxious name. Even if it’s the second time she’s heard it, it doesn’t sound any less unpleasant. Second, wrong person to ask, since she’d rather jump into mud and get dirt on her face than spare the roach— and all of its six legs, a glance.

Yves swallows down her disgust, glaring at tiny beady eyes. “...Sure,”

She really dropped everything and came running for _this?_

Jungeun squeaks when the offending creature returns to staring back at her, Choerry’s gaze horrifyingly devilish and scheming for a nine year old.

“See?”

The cockroach’s antennas twitch.

Jungeun shrieks. “No!”

Yves turns to leave, still in disbelief that she’d been worried over nothing. Even worse, that she felt relieved that they were safe, before Jungeun’s yelling at her to help— _“Or else!”_

It takes a promise for lunch at Jungeun’s favorite restaurant and the monster being set several feet away bundled in Choerry’s socks before Jungeun considers placing a step out of the corner.

She’s convinced out of her spot when Yves promises three more lunch dates and a fixed door, with Choerry pinky swearing to keep Mr. Snuggly Six-Legs out of the house (but secretly stashed away in her room, she tells Yves on the way out to the front yard when Jungeun disappears in the bathroom).

—

She made sure to repair the broken door, embarrassed because her panic wasn’t necessary and bitter because she shouldn’t have panicked in the first place.

“So,” Jungeun’s in a lighter mood, all smiles with teeth and quiet giggles. “You came rushing in, huh. Even broke my door down.”

Heat blazes Yves’ cheeks; she hates that she can’t help it.

“...I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Jungeun pats her knee, fingers lingering longer than Yves knows is necessary; she distracts herself with tightening the screws on the latches. “It’s sweet of you. Even if it wasn’t really anything to worry about.”

“Like a true Pokemon!” Choerry squeals beside her, fiddling with the remaining nails that haven’t been hammered in. “You came in here so fast— like a quick attack!”

Jungeun laughs. “Seriously though, thanks. It’s comforting to know that someone would come in like that in case of, well.” She shrugs. “You know.”

Yves nods, coaxes Choerry to pass the nails before hammering them in, wonders for a moment if her will to complete her objective is as fragile as a door that falls the second momentum hits.

It’s at their porch that Yves finds out it’s even worse than that, Jungeun’s lips swift and chaste against her cheek, murmuring _“Thanks again”_ before she’s being pushed, stumbling down the stairs and Choerry’s _“Bye Eevee!”_ gets muffled behind a closed door.

Yves doesn’t know what else to do but head for home feeling dizzy wearing Jungeun’s kiss.

—

Yves’ made her fair share of mistakes.

Missing a clean killing blow to the head, leaving behind a clue that hints a death might not have actually been suicide— she’s made plenty of errors before.

“Wait, Choerry!” But agreeing to babysit Choerry while Jungeun went off to do a last-minute errand run to the office— “You can’t go in there,”

A pout. “Why not?”

—is the worst mistake she’s made to date.

Yves huffs, gestures towards the stairs. “It’s dangerous,”

“But you’re a Pokemon!” Choerry says it like it’s a fact, a triumphant smile and a pair of tiny hands settled on her hips, chest puffed as if anything coming out of her mouth is the truth. “I know you’ll protect me so I’m not scared.”

If only she knew.

Yves masks her grimace with a laugh. “You’re more of a protector than I am, trust me.”

Choerry tilts her head, confusion swirling in her eyes but Yves waves it off, offering her hand instead because she doesn’t expect Choerry to remember that night she had saved her mother at gunpoint.

“Just hold on and be careful, the steps are a little wonky, okay?”

It’s inevitable that Choerry finds joy in the trinkets and knick knacks stashed away in the attic: a broken slinky, jack in the box, dusty bulbs, and a music box.

All Yves sees are antiques and mementos that don’t belong to her.

“Isn’t this beautiful, Eevee? Does it still work?”

She can’t comment. She wouldn’t know when the true owner of the lamp colored in dusty purple and yellow stars is six feet underground rotting in the backyard.

Yves guides her to the nearest power outlet. “Let’s find out.”

When Choerry flicks the switch, the lamp lights up and so does her eyes, like a cacophony of stars and curiosity. Choerry lunges at her for a hug too small and too tight, how she squeals _“Amazing!”_ like it was one of the seven wonders of the world.

Yves hates it.

Later, with Choerry in tow holding onto the lamp they’ve cleaned up and polished for her to take home, Yves turns down Jungeun’s offer for dinner as a thank you.

She needs to stay away. Babysitting Choerry was her worst mistake. But playing house and knowing it won’t last makes her feel sick – as if her world’s been turned on its head and she’s forgotten what it’s like to be herself.

Yves calls Haseul for more contracts, drowns herself in extra kills for days – ones that are significantly easier than the mark on Jungeun’s head; relishes in the feel of crushing a spine, piercing a heart, twisting a neck – _crack_.

She swims in the adrenaline rush; the blood pumping in her ears when she’s on the verge of getting caught makes her world spin again. So she waits; she waits until her kills get easier to do, methods becoming swifter, cleaner – polished and unbridled in preparation for the mark next door.

After all, Jungeun deserves the best.

—

Yves doesn’t need the bravery that could be found at the bottom of a bottle she can’t pronounce.

She’s gotten enough courage from the scoreboard of lives she’s taken to be proud of, carries them like a belt that no one else gets to see until it’s too late.

Choerry probably found hers because her mother hasn’t come back yet.

“Will you help me find mommy?”

Yves had jolted midway through untying her tie when Choerry came knocking at her door alone at 7 PM on a school night. It didn’t take much to convince her when she was already stepping outside the moment she saw Choerry through the peephole.

This is the first time they’ve spoken to each other in weeks, other than reading Choerry’s one-sided letters; Yves made sure she’d be out of the house before they’d be awake, and back home long after night falls.

Normally on nights like these when she’s back earlier than usual, she’d ignore Choerry’s obnoxious knocking or doorbells, ignore Jungeun’s hopeful _“Maybe she’s really busy. We can try again next time, okay?”_ and Choerry’s sullen _“Okay…”_

But tonight isn’t the same; Jungeun’s voice didn’t come in to remind Choerry that there’s always next time – even if her voice would grow quieter and more doubtful each time.

“Did she leave you alone?”

Choerry fidgets, picking at the ends of her hair.

“No, my babysitter's at home. But she’s been trying to call mommy because she was supposed to come back a while ago.”

Definitely not something Jungeun would do; she loves Choerry too much to leave her alone for too long.

Yves crouches, their eyes levelled; Choerry’s gaze is glistening and wide-eyed and scared. She pretends her chest isn’t aching to hold her, reassure her that it’ll be okay.

Funny how weeks of learning how to not feel anything else but the rush of a kill comes crumbling to nothing with just a single, teary look.

“Did she tell you where she was going?”

“Something about work. Like, a party?” Choerry bites her lip, obvious by how her mouth trembles that she’s trying not to cry. “Maybe my babysitter knows more?”

Yves does just that, taking her hand and guiding Choerry back home to ask for more that might help. She squeezes tiny fingers when she feels them tremor even in the safety of her house.

Jiwoo’s a lot more soft spoken than Jungeun.

“She said there’s a work party,” Jiwoo hoists Choerry up into her arms, concern palpable by the curves of her brows. “It’s at a bar downtown. I can give you the address.”

“Thanks,” Yves turns to leave, but not without Jiwoo’s concern laced with a hint of panic slithering into her ears, tugging at her chest.

“She’s never missed a call, and she’s never been late to come back.”

She isn’t deaf to hear Jiwoo’s warning, too cautious and thick with _be careful_ that Yves starts to feel worried, too.

—

Yves finds Jungeun in the middle of a party with too much smoke and pulsing bright lights.

Jungeun’s beaming like a neon sign at the bar in a wine-red dress with a glass half empty and head lolling forward attempting to ask for more.

Yves slips in beside her, places a hand on top of her cup, leaning in close to her ear so that she could hear her over the obnoxious sound of noise they call music.

“Shouldn’t you be heading home?”

Jungeun blinks up at her, gaze blurred with too much to drink. She highly doubts that Jungeun would voluntarily get herself this far out of her own head.

“...You’re here...” she hiccups, “...I-I was just thinking about you— I can't believe you're actually here...”

“Right, well, here I am.” Yves ignores that slip-up of being part of her thoughts (a can of worms and feelings she’d rather not open any time soon), scanning every face that glances their way, notes how two seem too preoccupied with watching them to be considered partying. “And I’m getting you out of here.”

“But why?” Jungeun’s wobbling off the stool, clutching Yves’ arm. “It’s—it’s fun, getting free drinks. I’m getting promoted, did you know?”

Yves ignores the heat coiled around her chest when Jungeun shifts closer, pressing against her. Yves has to hold her up so she doesn’t fall.

She’s more troubled with the two strangers that seem tired of waiting, catching them move closer, slipping through gaggles of people too drunk to notice anything.

It’s only when scatters of light from the disco ball bounces off a pistol in one of their hands that Yves knows she’s just interrupted their plans for an easy kill.

“We’re leaving. Now.”

Jungeun’s grip on her tightens.

“But I like this...” Yves trembles at the breath pressing against her neck, jerking back when lips graze her skin, fleeting. “...Just stay like this.”

Yves yanks Jungeun’s hands off, grasping her face, makes sure Jungeun’s eyes follow hers. It’s the closest they’ve ever been, the most they've ever touched – it drives her mad for how her fingers quake to pull her closer.

“We have to go.” Jungeun whines, gaze hazy. “Stay with me. Okay?”

She slumps against Yves’ shoulder, nodding off as if sleep’s about to take her.

“...Okay...”

Yves holds her tight, maneuvering through the crowd, ears thrumming from the bass bleeding out of the speakers and straining to hear footsteps that attempt to follow them.

When she makes it outside, she rounds a corner, hides behind a garbage bin to lower Jungeun next to. Jungeun’s already dead weight, how her eyes barely stay open; Yves can’t move with two pursuers like this. Especially when Jungeun’s persistent to still cling on.

Yves peels Jungeun’s grip off her now-wrinkled tie, squeezing her hand so Jungeun would look at her, watching her blink slowly, gaze fixated on her lips.

“Just sleep, I’ll be right back.”

It’s almost amusing how fast Jungeun listens.

She slips off her jacket to cover Jungeun, provide both warmth and a momentary shield to hide behind. Yves loosens her tie, wrapping both ends around her hands and stretches so it grows taut.

Footsteps click closer, calculated and careful. Yves crouches right beside the corner, pressed up against the wall, waiting for the moment the end of a gun peeks past the brick wall before seizing their wrist and twists.

She drags him with her makeshift fiber wire, hears him yelp before she kicks his knee off balance, crouching to have his body shield her when she catches his partner raise her gun.

Yves circles her arms around his head until she’s got his neck caged in her tie, yanking hard so all she hears is him choking for air.

“You _bitch—_!”

She shoves his body forward the moment his partner shoots, hears the bullet tear through his chest, forces the shooter to sidestep his flailing but Yves’ quicker, freeing her hands to lock onto the woman’s wrist, yanks and twists so the gun falls before she elbows her throat.

Yves wraps her arms around her neck, listens to her gasp for air.

“Who ordered this?”

The woman grunts, scratching at Yves’ arms, nails scarring through her skin but Yves has felt worse.

Yves squeezes harder.

“D-Doing _your_ job!”

It doesn’t surprise her. It really shouldn’t. But here she is, feeling like reality has just kicked her in the chest, cracking her ribs to have her bones puncture her lungs, leaving her breathless. 

“…Tell them she’s mine,” Yves loosens a bit, lets oxygen finally fill the assassin, hears her sharp intake of air. “And I’ll let you live.”

She feels her frantic nod, letting go and watching her scamper off, her partner left behind on the sidewalk.

Yves drags him to the dumpster, removing her tie from his neck and feeling thankful that there’s already enough garbage bags to silence his fall, shifting them around so he’s at least hidden away for a little longer.

She pockets her tie to dispose of later before crouching in front of Jungeun, amused to find her still fast asleep, snuggled in her blazer.

Yves carries her into her car, makes sure she's comfortable in the backseat before she plucks out a spare button-down in the trunk to replace the one she has on, thankful that none of the blood stained Jungeun.

She heads for home, pretending she doesn’t hear Jungeun call her name even in her sleep.

—

Choerry's understandably teary-eyed when she makes it to their door, watches how grown-up she's already gotten when she leads Yves to Jungeun's bedroom, Jiwoo not far behind.

“Be careful, okay?” Choerry says when Yves' about to place Jungeun on the bed, her steady breaths tickling Yves’ neck. “Mommy wakes up if you move too much, and she can't sleep well when she's cold.”

Choerry’s gripping the end of the bed, staring up at her with eyes that know far more than Yves could possibly understand.

“Okay,”

Yves’ careful when laying her down, tugs at her jacket to get it back only to have Jungeun turn over and engulf half of it.

Jiwoo chuckles. “Guess you'll just have to wait for tomorrow.”

She has mixed feelings about that. Yves’ relieved she made it in time, but it’s concerning to know that she’s no longer the only one that’s assigned to kill her. She’d rather not have to worry about anyone else.

Hopefully that rookie assassin’s convincing enough to give her a few more days.

“Thank you, again.” Jiwoo has on a grateful smile across her lips. “She probably wouldn’t have been able to make it home without you. Though I’m surprised she’d drink enough to pass out.”

Yves doesn’t correct her on how it likely wasn’t Jungeun’s choice.

“Will you be staying for the night?” Yves says instead, gaze flickering between memorizing the slopes on Jungeun’s face and Choerry’s – worry deeply engraved on the little girl’s skin.

“Yeah,” Jiwoo says, rubbing her arm. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving Yerim on her own. Even if Jungeun’s technically already home.”

Yves nods. Good.

“Eevee?” There’s a tug on her fingers, “Are you hurt?”

“What?”

“There,” Choerry points at the space just above her wrists, jagged streaks of nails running across her skin in pink. “You look hurt.”

Yves’ quick to hide them behind her back, shakes her head at Jiwoo’s face drawing concern again.

“It’s nothing,” her voice comes out clipped, backing away, hurrying to turn the knob so she could leave; the room feels like it’s shrinking; she’s suffocating again, how her throat tightens, lips going dry. It’s too foreign. There's no control. “I’ll be heading out now. Goodnight.”

She ignores the fact that what she’s doing is running away, that scurrying off all because she’s afraid of an innocent question is better than facing worried eyes and talking about the truth.

In the warmth of her house, Yves tends to the scratch marks that have marred her skin, hisses when it stings to pour antiseptic over them.

None of this would’ve happened if she had already just _killed—_

_(“...You’re here… I-I was just thinking about you— I can’t believe you’re actually here...”)_

— stop.

When she’s finally done and they’re secured in bandage wraps, Yves slumps into her bed, waiting for sleep that doesn’t come until the sun’s already awake.

—

Time slips past her, just as elusive as the feelings that won’t leave her alone; it makes her care too much, think too much, worry too much — all for things that aren’t supposed to last.

Yves doesn’t get up when the doorbell rings.

Not even when she can hear Choerry yell through her closed window, _“Rise and shineee!”_ And Jungeun’s frantic _“Shh! Yerim, she might still be sleeping!”_

Yves doesn’t want to deal with the noisy pair of trouble next door that have somehow wormed their way into her heart. Wasn’t plaguing her thoughts 24/7 more than enough for them already?

But Yves does get up when her cellphone rings.

_“Odd. You don’t sound awake,”_

She scoffs, lays back into her pillows.

“Good morning to you too, Haseul.”

_“It’s afternoon, actually. But thanks. You too.”_ She pauses, hears shuffling of paper and a pen scratching against the surface. _“Got another job for Saturday. Just need your scope. Easy.”_

Yves shuts her eyes, rests an arm over her face; she wonders if she’s allowed to ask.

“Why Jungeun?”

_“First name basis now, are we.”_

“You know what I mean,”

Haseul hums to a song Yves doesn't know.

_“Well, besides the fact that we were paid? Not a clue.”_ Haseul stops, clicking sounds like a keyboard clacking away in the background. _“The client’s pissed, by the way. Wondering what’s taking so long.”_

Typical.

“Don’t you want to know?”

_“Not really,”_ Haseul pauses, _“and you shouldn’t want to, either.”_

Yves’ far gone from wanting to know nothing.

Maybe it’s her silence that gives it away, hears Haseul sigh over the phone. She can imagine her rubbing her temple, as if a headache has come on.

_“Just. Don’t worry about it. All that matters is getting things done. There are plenty of places to see after this, so don’t sweat it.”_

—

Stepping out for fresh June air that evening has never felt so freeing. The dark sky and night lights always manages to soothe the nerves still latched onto her limbs, odd jitters that torment her when she sleeps, playing dream sequences of a white-picket fence with the neighbors next door.

“Eevee!”

Yves’ thankful she chose to wear a long-sleeved shirt; she doesn’t need Choerry probing about her arms again.

“Hey,”

Choerry runs up to her with a new letter, but there’s something different in the way she looks at her; Yves can’t place it.

“Please read this when you can.”

Yves arches a brow, nodding, unnerved by the lack of happiness lines crinkling her eyes when she smiles. Almost like it takes too much energy to muster.

“Hey!” Jungeun’s coming up to her, her arms cradling the blazer Yves had covered her in just last night. “Um, here. I had it dry cleaned for you.”

They must've been keeping watch to catch her this quickly.

Yves tries to avoid touching Jungeun’s fingers when she takes it, hoping she doesn’t notice her shiver when she fails; the brief brush of her skin makes her fingers simmer.

“You didn’t have to,”

Jungeun shakes her head.

“I don’t remember much from last night, but Jiwoo and Yerim told me you brought me home.” Jungeun shuffles her feet, head bowed, auburn masking her face. “So, thanks. I’m sorry I’ve been such a handful.”

It’s technically Yves’ fault. If she had already gotten rid of Jungeun the first few days she’d just moved in, none of this would’ve happened. But she was never the type to rush for a kill – and now she’s paying the price for it – with an aching heart and a pounding head every time she considers getting it done.

Yves can’t look at her. “Don’t worry about it.”

Maybe it’s Choerry’s fault. Her and her stupid letters.

“Eevee!” Yves feels her tug at her sleeve, “Will you come by Saturday? We’re having a party!”

“A party?”

Yves would think Jungeun was done with parties.

“It’s her birthday on Saturday,” Jungeun says, ruffling Choerry’s hair. “Go on. Tell her how old you’re going to be.”

Tiny fingers make up ten.

“Will you be there?” Giant eyes and a hopeful smile etch into her brain.

Yves knows she shouldn’t. She already has another kill assigned the same day. But it’s never been easy to say no to Choerry or Jungeun.

“Of course.”

She holds Choerry tight when she smothers her for a hug.

—

Her mind wanders often now, but not for illusions with a fantasy home and a family to live with.

“Hey, you seem…” Jungeun fiddles with the end of her sleeve, “...distant. Did I do something wrong?”

Yves' surprised at how quick Jungeun is to notice; even more so to actually ask. But Choerry's latest letter had been concerning.

_(Hello, Miss Eevee!_

_I think it's not bad to stare if it's just a little bit, but is it okay to be everywhere too? I always see someone watching mommy whenever we go shopping or play in the yard. I know mommy wouldn't mind if it's you, but it's not._

_Can you watch over mommy when I'm not there?_

_Thank you!_

_– Your Penpal,_

_:) Choerry._

_PS. Mommy said money helps sometimes, so I saved up!)_

To think she'd get hired for guard duty. $20.17 isn't anything compared to the six to nine figures she'd easily earn from contracts. Or Jungeun's head.

“No, you didn't.” Yves pats the space beside her on her front steps. “I've just been busy.”

Jungeun chooses to sit a lot closer than she expected; she’s not being very subtle (then again, when has she ever been?)

“Oh, okay.” Jungeun laughs a little, more jittery than Yves' used to. “I was worried, you know. I like you.” She halts, sees how her ears flare pink, stuttering. “I-I mean, _having_ you.” Yves arches a brow, recognizes the flush growing on Jungeun's cheeks; a savory hue more softer than the shirt she wears. “…Just— having you _around._ ”

Yves wonders if Jungeun's skin is as warm to touch as it looks.

She saves her from further embarrassment, choosing not to address the obvious nerves on Jungeun’s tongue, fiddling with the wrinkled change Choerry gave her, in her pocket.

“Is Choerry at school?”

“Yeah,” Jungeun rests her elbows on her knees, cradles her face with hands that barely cover the soft hue still painting her cheeks. “And it's my day off so I've just been cleaning around the house. What about you?”

Yves spots a figure from the corner of her eye, grateful that there's at least one good thing to come out of Jungeun's need to be closer. She's easier to watch.

She turns a little, facing her, makes sure Jungeun's warmth is close enough to feel, hand settled on the cement step just behind Jungeun.

“Same here. Just relaxing.”

Jungeun's still pink, though she isn't sure if it's because she's still embarrassed about her stuttering or if it's because of their proximity.

“I know about the letters, by the way.”

Yves stiffens, wonders just how much Jungeun actually knows.

“Never read any of them, but I knew she was writing to you. Yerim's not as slick as she thinks, scrambling off next door as if the house has no windows.” Jungeun chuckles, drawing invisible circles with her finger on the porch in the little space that’s left between them. “I trust she writes good things though. Does she?”

“Yeah,” Yves ponders on the weight of her next words, figures it's something Jungeun deserves to hear. “She really loves you.”

Jungeun picks at the ends of her jeans, her smile quiet and small and easy to miss, but it's all Yves cares to focus on.

“I love her, too.” Jungeun says.

Yves watches from the corner of her eyes how there’s still someone else – too far to make out well, but close enough to notice their presence.

Jungeun's head rests on her shoulder. It's familiar.

“Thanks for keeping Yerim company,”

There's a lump in her throat; too warm, too soft, too much. Doesn't help that her fingers itch to hold Jungeun, balling them into a fist so they can't reach out.

“...She wrote that you think I'm pretty.” Yves says, anything to get rid of it – this feeling.

Jungeun yelps, slaps her arm as if it'd erase a face that's a deeper shade than Yves' favorite pair of shoes.

Yves spares her from any more stumbling syllables with a nudge of her leg, laughing when Jungeun hides behind her hands, peeking between her fingers.

“For the record,” she reaches out, tucks strands of auburn away from Jungeun’s face; it doesn’t matter if they’re being watched – they should know Jungeun is _hers_. “I think you're pretty, too.”

—

Eyes follow Jungeun, but it's all they settle to do. Yves wonders if it's because they're just waiting for her to pull through.

“Do you think Yerim would like this?”

Jungeun's busy fluttering through stacks of purple; from shirts to sweaters, headbands and earrings. She doesn't notice anything else, not even when the same woman that's been tailing her the past few days enter the store.

Yves knows she won't do anything, not when she stares at her like a reminder before she walks past, slips a piece of paper in Yves' hand and disappears out the door.

“She'd like anything from you,” Yves says, distracted.

Jungeun chuckles. “How convenient.”

Yves reads the one-sentence note when Jungeun's not looking.

_(You have two days.)_

“Yves?”

Jungeun's gotten bolder, or maybe Yves' gotten less sharp, how Jungeun’s hand cups her cheek, guides Yves to look at her.

Yves swallows the lump in her throat. “Yes?”

She crumples the note in her pocket.

“Is something bothering you?”

She's tired. She doesn’t need to be reminded of what to do, but her agency doesn’t seem to care about wasting resources on babysitting her.

Even worse, she doesn't want to think about doing anything to Jungeun, doesn't want to think about the fact that it's either her, or someone else who'll finish the job, if they get impatient enough. She doesn't want to think about how Choerry will get left behind.

Yves turns her head, lips pressing against the palm of Jungeun's hand.

“Y-Yves?” Jungeun jumps, startled, but she doesn’t pull away.

“Sooyoung,” Yves mumbles against soft skin, knows it wouldn't matter if Jungeun knew her real name when she'd be gone in two days. “You can call me Sooyoung.”

The truth is more intimate than any kiss she could give, but Jungeun leans up anyway, lips hot against the corner of Yves' mouth.

She doesn't really know where Jungeun got her courage from, but Yves finds hers when Jungeun mumbles _“Sooyoung,”_ as if to test it out on her tongue. It sounds sinfully divine – makes her dizzy with an urge to just hold her closer, chasing for the taste of her name on Jungeun’s lips.

Jungeun mumbles her name like she's found peace, listening to her soft sighs and quiet giggles. She’ll make sure her last breath will feel just as sweet.

—

_“You sound like you're in a hurry,”_

“I am,” Yves huffs, readjusting her scope, tightens the suppressor. “Now will you just tell me which one to shoot?”

Haseul chuckles, which she does often, Yves realizes, when she's far too amused to focus on anything else but the current subject of her glee.

_“It's not like you've got anything else to look forward to.”_ She dreads the quiet that comes after, a sign that Haseul's probably already thinking about every possibility. _“...Tell me, what's got you so worked up that you want to finish a task that you'd normally take your time with?”_

It’s Choerry’s birthday today and she’s already missing half of it.

“It’s nothing,”

A snort rings through her earpiece _. “Right,”_

“Really,” Yves readjusts her hold, makes sure her M21 sits snug against her shoulder. “It’s nothing.”

_“Okay then. Well.”_ It sounds like she’s rummaging through a drawer or filing cabinet, hearing the screech of metal and a sharp clang. _“It’s the lady in red.”_

Haseul’s humming eases little tension that’s coiled around her fingers, hates how she’s dragging this longer than necessary.

Through her scope she watches people come in dressed in Burberry and Valentino, filling in cushioned seats around an oval desk; city lights a backdrop to marble floors and chandeliers.

Tonight won't be difficult; it won’t take much effort when the weather's calm and wind isn't an issue, even if she’s five hundred meters away.

She knows how to keep a steady grip as long as she isn’t distracted – which is why Haseul’s probing curiosity has irritation simmering in her head.

_“...I don’t know why you’re still there.”_ Haseul pauses, the sound of papers shuffling through. _“I’ve already booked you a flight to Paris in advance, which, by the way, you should be on next Friday considering we never pulled through with Costa Rica.”_

That startles her, unsteadies her aim.

“What?”

It’s not really a surprise. Shouldn’t be, anyway. It's imperative that she move often, considering there's now more than just murmurs about the sudden assassinations of high-ranked officials in a single city, courtesy of her, of course.

Her kill counts have increased, rumors getting louder, so it's only a matter of time before she's forced to leave.

_“You heard me.”_ There’s that annoying humming again, a sign that Haseul’s mind is whirring with too many ideas and not enough care for the task at hand. _“You keep taking up jobs that frankly mean nothing to us. So why is the one person who_ does _matter in our grand scheme of things, not, you know, dead?”_

“You know me,” Yves shakes off the nerves from her hands, settling her vision back through her scope for a woman in red. “It's like you've said. I like to take my time.”

She watches the door open, spots a woman donned in heels and a backless dress painted in that one color she's been assigned to get rid of for the night. She waits for the target to settle into the last open seat, finger closing in on the trigger.

Yves freezes the moment she swivels around.

She still has one more day.

_“Personally, I think you've had plenty of time.”_ Haseul says casually, so off-handed it feels like whiplash for how much it weighs Yves down. _“She thinks this is just another last-minute meeting and not an open feast with several hitmen in the same room. That is, if you don't take the shot first.”_

Yves can't speak. Her grip tremors.

Haseul continues on like she can't hear how her breaths come out faster, shorter— but Yves knows better.

_“I'm surprised she came by since it's her daughter's birthday today, which I'm sure you knew about already.”_ She pauses, humming that annoying song Yves could never put a name to. _“Maybe it's because I told her you'd be there. I mentioned a made-up conference with her company and yours – which you never worked for, of course. I just didn’t think she’d actually listen. Much less believe it.”_

Her hands go numb, heart thudding against her rib cage, throat going parched. She watches through the scope how Jungeun’s eyes flit around, as if searching, the small pout on her lips carving her face when she doesn’t seem to find whatever it is she’s looking for.

There’s nothing but a thrumming buzz swirling in her head, blocking out every noise.

If Haseul’s saying something now, Yves can’t hear it.

All she sees is the moment she’s supposed to use, a minute too long before someone else at the table gives up waiting, standing and reaching for his gun.

Her nerves fade into focus and steady breaths, still hands and a quiet mind, prioritizing the life swirling in Jungeun's eyes.

She won’t miss. After all, Choerry _did_ hire the best.

Yves takes aim, and fires.

-

Artwork by: **[@_zoeves](https://twitter.com/_zoeves?s=20)**

****

****

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited: 2020/05/04
> 
> @_zoeves: Thank you so much for the beautiful artworks! I'm honored you took the time to make something so amazing for this story. I'm truly grateful. And you've captured the scenes so well I'm still stunned. Thank you for choosing to breathe life into them through your art. You spoil me; my thank you's will never be enough. 
> 
> Couldn't stay away from Lipves. So What era provided so much content that it still surprises me that there doesn't seem to be much love for them. Or maybe I've been looking in the wrong places. Maybe Lipves shippers are just shy. I don't know. But what I do know is that Choerry is adorable. 
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed this update. Until next time.


	2. Prey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jungeun has a promise to keep.

Four months to situate herself, get familiar with her surroundings, the house, the neighborhood, the people.

Three ways to go about it: play as a workaholic lawyer, depressed and lonely writer, or a single and loving mother.

But she only has two hours to tell them what she’s decided on and one person she could actually count on to help her out with packing away her things for her new life.

“This is— this is insane!” Jinsol’s flailing hands around, clearly distressed — if the strands on her head poking sideways and in all directions weren’t already giving it away. “Are you sure you want to do this?” 

There’s a lot of things she wants to do — her job, for one. And two, relax. Hopefully the new house they’ve gotten for her is comfortable enough for that.

“I’m sure,” 

“But why?”

“It’s a job, Jinsol.” Jungeun says, folding a red shirt before stuffing it in the corner of her luggage. “Besides, I’m the one who came up with the idea in the first place.”

“Which I still think is crazy, by the way.” 

Jungeun ignores her. 

“If it’s not me, then it’ll just end up being pushed to someone else. Might as well get the job done right the first time around with someone who’s actually good at it.” 

“Still,” Jinsol pouts, brows furrowed in that signature curve that it should be illegal for how lethal it could make her decisions sway. “Isn’t this too dangerous?” 

Volunteering to have herself potentially killed off for a chance at nailing an elusive crime syndicate? 

Dangerous wouldn’t even begin to cut it.

“Sol,” Jungeun smiles, wistful. “Since when is our work ever not?”

Jinsol whines. “You know what I mean…” she sighs, plops next to her luggage on the bed. “I’m just worried about you.”

She gets it. It’s not every day you get a target placed on your back. And voluntarily, even. But at least she gets to earn more than anyone else sitting at the top of the pyramid. 

That is, if she lives long enough to enjoy it.

“Covert operations have been my thing for years. I’ve lived through worse.” Disguising herself to be someone she’s not is a skill she’s learned to master— her life on the line one too many times makes her better than most. “Pretending to be a single mom will be a walk in the park.”

After all, she doesn’t know how to be anything but someone else.

Besides, out of all the options she has, getting to rest a little as a single mother sounds like a blessing. 

“With a giant red bulls-eye on your back,” Jinsol quips.

Jungeun rolls her eyes. “I’m aware,” 

“You won’t even know who the assassin is until it might be too late,” Jinsol shoves a pair of pajamas into Jungeun’s suitcase with a huff, “don’t you get that?” 

Jungeun laughs, ruffling Jinsol’s hair, watches her grumble as she attempts to smooth out the strands, slapping her hands away.

“I’ll be fine.” 

—

Her confidence was built from too many close-calls and split-second decisions that conveniently piled up in her favour for the top.

She’s made choices that cost people’s lives for the greater good; sacrificed a few for the many — old, traditional, questionable, morals that have shaded her vision grey that it’s foreign to see any other colour. 

So when she follows Vivi up a flight of steps chalked-full of crayon in shades of red to purple, Jungeun wonders if they’re where they should be.

“What are we doing here?”

Vivi chuckles. “Meeting your partner,” 

She pauses, foot teetering at the edge of a crooked rainbow. 

“Partner? What partner?” The words tumble out of her mouth, barely registers they’ve already been said before she’s rolling out more. “Wait, why do I even need one? I’m playing a single mother—“ 

The syllables catch up to her, recognition settling in her head, the truth uncomfortable and terrifying. 

“Exactly,” Vivi’s made it up to the top, idling by the entrance. “The point of a disguise is to be convincing, isn’t it?”

Dread crawls like bile up her throat, staring up at the letters pinned just above the doors, Vivi disappearing behind them.

Love Cherry Magic — House for Gifted Children.

—

Second-guessing gets people killed in her line of work. 

So Jungeun learned how to make decisions and never regret them, swallow such pills down like they were nothing: ignore the tiny voice echoing in her head, or the little prickle in her chest, tugging at her heart and trying to convince her that maybe there was a better way of handling things.

But the moment her choice comes dressed in purple overalls, big brown eyes, and a small smile, Jungeun feels her throat close up.

This pill is harder to swallow.

“Here’s your partner,” Vivi says, nudging the little girl to let go of her leg, looking exasperated at how the kid latches on like she’d much rather stay where she is. “Go on, why don’t you say hi?” 

Jungeun’s breath catches in her throat. She attempts to down the anxiety clawing up her chest as the kid teeters on her feet, innocent eyes shifting between staring at the ground and meeting her gaze.

“...Hi.” 

It doesn’t work. 

Her voice jolts Jungeun into action, gears whirring away in her limbs, frantic. 

“Wait, are you serious?” Jungeun reaches out, grip tightening on Vivi’s shoulders, hands trembling for the possibility of having a child’s life compromised by work. “You can’t just bring a kid in! It’s dangerous!” 

Vivi’s gaze hardens, but she sees the way understanding swirls through her eyes, doubt flickering in pools of brown.

“She comes with the job, Jungeun.” She pats her arm, attempts to ease her hold. It works. “What did you think ‘single mom’ meant?” 

“I—“ the number of ways this could all go wrong flashes through her mind, “— I never thought an actual kid would come in!” 

“It’s convincing,”

“It’s _stupid_.” Jungeun rakes fingers through her hair, pretends she doesn’t notice the child shrinking away at her voice. “Who allowed this? This is crazy. There’s no way I’m letting this—“

“The director,” Vivi clears her throat, tucks her hair back. “The director gave the green light. She knows the stakes.” 

Fury flashes with each of her steps, moving forward. 

“She’s betting on her life!” 

“Isn’t that what you’re doing?” 

“It’s not the same!” Jungeun’s seething, “I know what I’m doing, but she doesn’t—“ 

“...I do,” it’s small, quiet, but it’s enough to puncture her ears, ease the rattling in her chest. 

Her words die on her lips, voice trickling into nothing, spotting the little girl stare up at her like she knows too much. 

“I do.” She says again, louder this time, but just as firm. “I do know.” 

Vivi smiles like she knows it, too. 

“Well, there you have it.” 

Jungeun bristles at the thought of allowing a child to go through with something as dangerous as this— even if the kid knew, herself. 

Vivi pats her back.

“You’ll be fine, Jungeun.” 

She scoffs. She’s not so sure about that.

—

When she’s done signing the adoption papers, feeling distant staring at her own name written out promising to be this kid’s mother (fake, she reminds herself), Jungeun wonders if it’s right to bring colour into a grey life.

It’s at the office when Yerim’s fast asleep on the sofa and Vivi’s about to leave for home that Jungeun asks about the thoughts rummaging through her head.

“What happens after?” She pauses, watches Vivi’s grip falter around the knob. “What happens after it’s all over?” 

_What happens to Yerim?_

“Well, that’s up to you.” Vivi glances over her shoulder, spares her a look softer than the ones she’s given the entire day. “She knows this is just a job, if it makes you feel any better.” 

It doesn’t. 

The implication of letting Yerim go once all is said and done, like a tool that’s served its purpose, is unnerving — whether or not Yerim knows it, too. 

Especially when Yerim’s eyes sparkled and a tiny smile flickered across her face the moment Jungeun signed her name to be her legal guardian, like she had forgotten it was all just pretend. 

Jungeun remembers the ache in her chest when Vivi briefed them on their objectives, the callous reminder shattering the happiness that had just gotten used to settling on Yerim’s skin.

She hasn’t said a word since then.

Jungeun crouches in front of her, watches the way Yerim sleeps, holding onto herself, arms snug around her stomach — as if to stave of the cold.

She recognizes what Vivi was implying — attempting to ease the guilt that’d inevitably crawl up when it’s time to decide; whether to keep them as a family even when they’re no longer just roles in a play, or not.

She doesn’t know if they’ll still be together after it’s all over. She doesn’t know if Yerim would even want to continue living with her, or if she wants to even have her as a mother. Jungeun doesn’t know if she wants to even _be_ a real mother.

But she does know one thing; Yerim deserves a warm bed. 

“Hey...” her hand is gentle on Yerim’s shoulder, shaking her lightly, watching innocent eyes flutter open. “...Let’s go home.”

—

Four months. 

That’s all they have to prepare. Form a bond convincing enough to fool anyone else into thinking they’re a loving family of two and not strangers lumped together out of necessity. 

Jungeun isn’t looking forward to that. She should’ve chosen to be a writer instead. 

The house is nice, at least.

“Ready?” Jungeun says, suitcase in hand. 

Yerim stands quiet beside her, peering up at the house as if she’s never seen anything like it, purple backpack dangling over her shoulders, a strap having settled on the crook of her elbow.

There’s something in her eyes Jungeun can’t decipher; deep, almost intangible, as if she can’t believe what she’s seeing.

They glisten like tears are brimming beneath her eyelids, waiting to fall. But she blinks hard, once, shutting her eyes for a moment— one too private that Jungeun feels like she’s intruding, before it’s gone.

Yerim only nods.

Jungeun’s used to a lot of silence — most missions required reconnaissance, so the quiet was often a welcomed visitor. But this one’s crushing.

Her fingers fidget by her side, wondering if she should reach out, hold Yerim’s hand — make this all feel a little less out of place.

“Okay, let’s go.”

She doesn’t. 

—

It takes time for Yerim to warm up to her. 

She has an interesting set of quirks, most typical of what children are like, but a few are questionable — like her odd love for roaches. 

Jungeun wishes she could erase her memories of that day. Seeing Yerim cradle one in her hands, give it a name; ‘Mr. Snuggly Six-Legs’, Jungeun felt her knees go weak. All she wanted to do was run.

She kicked the wretched monster instead.

Yerim was mortified. 

_“How could you?!”_

Definitely didn’t give her any brownie points when it comes to Yerim’s trust.

Even if she’s just a child, she’s like any other new partner; she requires her space, comes in and mingles with short replies and stiff nods before disappearing back into her room. 

She researched on how to handle children (it’s not like she’s had much experience), and most advise to treat them like how you treat anyone else — that they’re not as naive as most think.

Jungeun thought she’d have to buy toys or games, bring in some form of entertainment to keep the girl preoccupied, but Yerim’s not like other kids.

It should’ve been a no brainer when she came from an orphanage for gifted children that Yerim prefers items that challenge her intellect. 

Jungeun finds her on the couch with a Rubik’s cube, hands busy twisting and turning colours until they match. 

“Hey,” she’s not necessarily great at starting conversations, more accustomed to being approached than approaching. “You’re pretty good.” 

Yerim hums, staring at the colours being matched together, before twisting it so it resets. 

She’s back to solving it again.

Jungeun ignores the cold shoulder, settling down to sit next to her.

“What would you like for lunch? I’ve got some recipes in mind, but I’m not sure what you’re into.”

Jungeun hides a triumphant smile when Yerim finally looks up, a flicker of excitement flashing across her eyes. 

“...Can we bake cookies after?” 

“Of course.” She stands, dusts off lint from her jeans. “If we don’t have the ingredients, we could always go shopping.”

That gets Yerim to drop the Rubik’s cube, watching her hop off the couch to run for the kitchen, yelling things out as she rummages through the cupboards. 

“We’re gonna need sprinkles, and chocolate, and whip cream, and— _ooh!_ Can we get some shapey-thingys too?” 

Jungeun laughs. “Shapey-thingys?” 

“The one that makes the cookies have different shapes!” Yerim’s grin covers the bottom half of her face, her bright eyes illuminating the top. “I want a cloud one! _Oh!_ And a rainbow one! Please?”

It’s cute. The way Yerim pauses, halfway through the fridge, the door large enough to swallow her in, gaze twinkling with muted hope.

Jungeun tries not to laugh any harder than she already is.

“Only if you eat your vegetables.” 

Yerim cheers. 

—

Babysitting has never been her favourite job to do. 

Two, four, or eight hours, always felt too long. Even if half the time it’s just the kid running around finding the closest object to busy themselves with.

Twenty-four seven is a nightmare.

But not because Yerim’s zipping across the room to play with the next best thing. 

“Yerim?”

It’s the fact that it feels like she’s not even _here_ that makes it all a little unsettling. 

She’s been through worse; it’s almost laughable how much something like this has her bothered. Doesn’t help that Yerim’s seemingly not interested in getting to know her besides being partners for the job.

She thought she was making progress; baking cookies every other day seemed to do wonders, bringing on a smile on Yerim’s face when nothing else would.

“...Yerim?” 

Jungeun knocks on her door, peeking through to find Yerim humming to whatever song is playing in her ears, purple headphones large and comfortable over her head.

Relief spreads through her fingers. This isn’t so bad. Yerim’s just the quiet type. She can handle quiet. 

She walks closer, looms over to find Yerim doodling a picture of two...people? (If stick figures counted as people) along with a letter. 

It doesn’t hit her who they represent until Yerim’s writing names for each of them - “Choerry” and “Mommy”. 

Something stirs in her chest. 

Jungeun swallows hard, attempting to moisten the dryness that has somehow settled in her throat. 

“Who’s Choerry?” Jungeun says, feeling apologetic the moment Yerim jumps from her chair, crayons flung out of her hands to land somewhere behind her. “Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

She crouches to pick up the colours sprawled across the floor, rising just in time to see Yerim hiding the drawing and letter inside her desk.

“D-Did you see that?” 

Yerim sounds like she’s about to cry - the way her eyes widen with fear has Jungeun stumbling to make sure it doesn’t stay. 

“N-No! No, don’t worry, I didn’t see anything.” Jungeun winces, guilt piling up at how Yerim’s lips jitter with nerves. “I’m sorry, I just - I _did_ see the name ‘Choerry’, but I promise, that was all I saw. Okay?” 

Yerim nods, a small smile spreading across her mouth.

Good. A smile is all Yerim should ever know. 

“Choerry is my nickname!” 

Jungeun grins. “It’s cute, I like it.” 

She listens to Yerim ramble about how she got the name, recognizes how slowly, but surely, she’s being welcomed into her world of colours and rainbows. She’s quite the little artist, her various portraits of unicorns and the sky plastered all over her bedroom walls. 

But not once does Yerim mention the letter and drawing hidden away in her desk. 

—

“How much does she know?” Jungeun says the moment she pulls Vivi to the side after everyone else is gone from the meeting room.

Vivi tilts her head. “About what?”

“The mission,” Jungeun lowers her voice, leans in closer so Yerim can’t hear; even if they were already several feet away. “How much does she actually know?” 

“You can just ask her.” Vivi says, amusement shaping her lips into that soft glowing smile. “She’s not a woman wearing six feet and three inches of arrogance over your head.” 

Jungeun frowns. “That’s oddly specific.” 

“Don’t even get me started,” 

There’s a story there, but Jungeun will ask another time — probably when they’re three shots in chasing for comfort in drinks too expensive and company she’s learned to tolerate.

Jungeun looks away, watching Yerim fiddle with tiny puzzle pieces, assembling a picture together faster than she did building a house made out of LEGO.

Yerim’s not necessarily unapproachable. If anything, she’s more open than most — talking about everything she’d done for the day, chirping away like she wouldn’t run out of things to say.

But that’s the problem. She talks and talks and talks about anything else if it means keeping actual secrets — and feelings, to herself.

“I’ll try,” 

—

It’s at dinner that Yerim reaches out first.

“...We’re here to catch bad people, right?” 

Jungeun meets curious eyes, lowering her chopsticks. 

“That’s right,” 

Yerim picks at her food, chewing on her bottom lip. 

“Is there something bothering you?” Jungeun says, attempts to tug whatever’s stuck in her head.

She watches her roll a carrot around the plate. 

“...No,” 

Jungeun doesn’t want to push her. It’s already impressive enough that Yerim took the initiative first. 

“Okay,”

Yerim rolls the carrot around a little more, makes it bump into a broccoli before she’s speaking again. 

“Did you always want to be a mom?”

There’s another question underlying Yerim’s voice, scrawled across in her eyes unsaid. Jungeun can’t read it, but she knows it’s something important - something Yerim holds to heart. 

“I don’t know,” Jungeun refuses to lie; Yerim is sharper than most kids, and kids have always been smart. “I’ve never really thought about what to do in life besides work.” 

She watches her poke the carrot, popping it into her mouth. Yerim chews slowly, like she’s pondering on the words that have settled in her head. 

“...All I thought about was having a mom,” Yerim says, watching carefully; Jungeun wonders if Yerim catches her flinch - she’s always been easy to read. “Even if it was pretend. I just wanted one. Is that bad?” 

“No!” She reels her voice back in, coughs out the aggression when Yerim jumps up, startled. “No, no, it’s not.” Jungeun reaches out, stopping halfway, realizes that maybe Yerim doesn’t want her comfort. “Sorry, I - I didn’t mean to yell.”

There’s this sense of guilt bubbling in her gut, trembling beneath her chest; it hurts almost as much as seeing the recognition in Yerim’s face as if this is all it’ll ever be.

Was that how her agency recruited her? Using a child’s hope for wanting a mother as an advantage to get the job done?

Yerim nods once the jitters leave her fingers, gaze lingering back on her plate.

“Then what makes someone bad?”

“They hurt people,” Jungeun fumbles for a definition that’s simple but accurate. “Sometimes make them hurt so much that they don’t wake up anymore.” 

“So we’re the good guys?”

“I like to think so,” 

Yerim goes back to poking at another vegetable. 

“Okay.”

Jungeun’s heard plenty of conversations like this; that familiar tone of someone not convinced. 

She’ll ask Vivi about it, later.

—

_“She volunteered, actually.”_ Vivi’s voice quiets, hearing her swallow over the line, the swish of liquid flitting through.

“Really?” 

Jungeun readjusts the phone on her shoulder, balancing her basket of laundry between her hands, stepping slowly down the stairs. 

_“There’s only a few kids who meet the criteria: orphaned, a loner, intelligent, and rational. We select the ones who know exactly what they’re signing up for.”_ There’s a glass that clinks in the background, _“Yerim is one of them.”_

“That…” Jungeun doesn’t know what to say; she‘s not surprised, but still. “...I don’t know, it just— it feels wrong.” 

_“Using your actual name to set up an assassination — even if it’s a trap, feels wrong.”_ Vivi is sharp when she says it, reminds Jungeun that Jinsol isn’t the only one who feels that way. _“Everything about this, feels wrong. But here we are.”_

Jungeun sighs, dumping her clothes one by one into the washing machine.

“Real name with a made-up profile,” she corrects, “I already told you, I want to be as convincing as possible if I’m going to be playing bait. Lacking natural reactions to just getting my name called would be a dead giveaway. At least this way, it’ll be as genuine as it gets.”

Vivi’s arguably as persistent as Jinsol.

_“You can still call it off, you know. We haven’t sent in your profile yet.”_

“I appreciate it,” Jungeun presses at the options, watching the bundles of colours start to swirl. “But I’m not going to take back two months of all our hard work.” 

Especially Yerim’s. 

They’re getting the hang of being together; building an actual relationship instead of just slapping a label and hoping it sticks. 

She doesn’t want to imagine what it’d be like if she calls this operation off. 

Yerim’s strong; she’d probably be fine with moving back to the orphanage— cut this fantasy off short, maybe dream of another chance when it doesn’t hurt to think about anymore. 

But Jungeun’s not that strong.

_“All right,”_ Vivi sounds resigned, but Jungeun could also hear her smile. _“We’ll be here. I hope you know what you’re doing.”_

Jungeun hears the line click, stuffing her phone in her pocket as soon as Yerim comes running down the stairs to show her a new drawing.

It’s instinctive to scold her, tell her “be careful, you might trip!” and catch her when she inevitably does, smiling when Yerim giggles, mumbling “oops” because she’s just proved her point. 

Jungeun’s not sure she wants to ever let go of this.

She hopes she knows what she’s doing, too.

—

The first time Yerim calls her “Mommy,” Jungeun doesn’t know how to feel about it.

It comes as a surprise, with the wind knocked out of her and her back hitting the floor, sand cushioning her fall. 

Yerim’s little hands tap at her cheeks.

“A-Are you okay?” 

Jungeun learns with an aching back that the idea of Yerim jumping off the swing is a horrible one. 

But what made her stance break and her legs go rigid was Yerim yelling “Mommy!” with a giant smile on her face, losing her footing the moment Yerim made it to her arms.

She didn’t expect to be catching her breath because of a new name and not because of Yerim’s weight paired down with gravity.

“Why are you crying…?” 

Yerim’s tiny fingers prod her cheeks, feeling the way she wipes at her skin. 

Jungeun attempts to blink them all away, curses in her head for the tears she shouldn’t be shedding (she’s at a playground, for God’s sake— there are kids running around), but it only makes them fall faster. 

“I’m okay,” she sits up, holding Yerim close with one arm, erasing tear tracks with the other. “It’s nothing, just— you know, sand in my eyes.” 

Yerim pouts. 

“...Is it because I’m heavy?” 

“No!” Jungeun wipes at Yerim’s jeans, sweeping dirt off her knees. “No, definitely not. I’m stronger than I look. I caught you, didn’t I?” 

Yerim giggles; Jungeun can’t help but think her mischievous smile means she doesn’t believe it. 

“...Is it because I called you ‘Mommy’?” 

Jungeun tries to spout words, say anything— but her lips fumble for them, letters jumbled on her tongue.

“I - I, um, no? Not really?” She gazes at the swing behind Yerim, distracts herself from Yerim’s steady eyes with chains that have rusted over the years. “I mean, if you want to? I don’t mind!”

Jungeun winces at the shrill in her voice.

Yerim no doubt spotted her jitteriness, a frown lining her lips.

“Are you sure? Because I don’t have to if you don’t want—“

“Of course I’m sure! I’m sorry, I just— I’m not used to being a mom.” Jungeun tucks strands of brown behind Yerim’s ear, “I’ve never been one, until now, so...I don’t know if I’ll be any good.” 

“That’s okay,” Yerim pokes her hand, warmth spreading across Jungeun’s knuckles. “I never thought I’d get a mom, but then you came.” 

Jungeun feels a choked sob well up beneath her throat, tears rising beneath her eyelids. 

Yerim’s grinning like she knows how she’s feeling — all smug, as if she understands that she’s the reason she’s about to cry again. Eagerly waiting for it.

This little runt.

She taps Yerim’s nose, ignores the ruckus of children laughing and yelling and crying in the background. 

“I’m going to hug the crap out of you if you keep smiling like that.” 

—

The second time Yerim calls her ‘Mommy’, it’s when Yerim’s leaving for her first day of school. 

Jungeun remembers the time when she had to take the school bus too; small and barely able to reach the first step, looking down the moment she makes it to the aisle, always settling to sit at the back. Like she’d rather disappear.

Yerim looks just like her. 

“Do I _have_ to…?” 

Giant teary eyes gaze up at her, pleading for a chance to stay at home instead — Jungeun remembers feeling the same way. 

She’d rather keep Yerim home, too. 

Jungeun crouches, readjusts Yerim’s jacket, straightening out the collar.

“You know how you always love playing with your puzzles? Or your Rubik’s cube? Or even with your LEGO?” 

“But I don’t like LEGO?” 

Jungeun laughs. “Okay, forget LEGO. Think of school like — like it’s a new puzzle piece.” 

Yerim tilts her head. “A puzzle piece?” 

“Yeah,” the words swirl on her tongue, curling locks of hair behind Yerim’s ear. “School is just another piece of a puzzle; you’ll make new friends, see more than just your room and our front yard, and learn a lot more things.” 

“What’s the puzzle?” 

“You,” Jungeun chuckles at Yerim’s pout, confusion palpable along her lips. “I know this sounds a little...weird, maybe even corny, but if it helps, just - well, just think of everything in life as pieces to your own puzzle. They help shape who you are, and eventually, make up a clearer picture of you. Does that make sense?”

Yerim nods, giggling when Jungeun ruffles her hair, standing up.

“Now shoo, go on. You wouldn’t want to miss out on meeting new friends, do you?”

“Okay,”

She watches her climb up the steps, tiny hands grasping at the railings. 

The sight makes her chest stir, like it hurts to watch her go. Which feels ridiculous because it’s not like Yerim’s going anywhere far away — it’s just _school._

Was this how her parents felt, too?

Jungeun doesn’t think Yerim would look back until she’s already inside, but she’s only halfway up the steps when Yerim spins around, jumping off, running back to her.

Emotions grow rampant in Jungeun’s chest, brimming with fire the moment Yerim lunged for a hug, crouching to catch her, swallowing the little girl in her arms. 

Odd how this moment makes her realize how tiny Yerim is; she fits snug against her, comfortable like she doesn’t fit anywhere else.

Her feelings get sprawled across a spectrum, from happiness that Yerim doesn’t seem to want to let go, and sadness because Jungeun feels the same way. 

She knows what that means — this growing attachment worming into her heart doesn’t bode well for anyone. 

Still. Maybe homeschool is the better option.

“Yerim?”

Jungeun’s stunned to silence the moment a chaste kiss presses against her cheek, clumsy and innocent. 

Yerim’s already sprinting back to the bus, scrambling up to reach the railings, laughter following after each step as if she hadn’t just petrified her with a sloppy kiss.

Jungeun’s still frozen in time, arms grasping nothing but air, blinking the memory haze away of Yerim’s cheeky smile when Yerim yells for her attention just before the doors close. 

“Bye mommy! I love you!” 

She can’t even muster up a wave - gaping as Yerim fades into the distance, disappearing around the corner. Her words still echo in Jungeun’s ears; lacing her with a joy that’s indescribable, an elation so euphoric that it makes her tremble.

God, she’s so happy she could _cry._

It doesn’t matter if she’s going to be late for work (it’s the fake nine-to-five office job for her camouflage anyway, nothing she cares about), she’s not in a hurry to go pretend she likes a boring day job.

Jungeun stays where she is, hands coming up to grasp her face, squeezing her eyelids shut so that maybe the tears won’t fall as much as before, and does just that. 

She cries. 

—

Jungeun’s not a stranger when it comes to anger.

She’s felt it when Jiwoo’s off drinking away because she’s broken up with another girlfriend of the week, when Jinsol’s gotten injured because her teammates weren’t watching the cameras to spot a guard coming her way.

Yerim hiding beneath her blankets attempting to muffle the sobs that tremor across her limbs has fury blazing through Jungeun. 

“Yerim? What’s wrong?” 

She’s met with resistance, watching Yerim hide further into purple sheets, whimpers still spilling through. 

She almost grabs the blankets to yank them away, furious at the thought that someone might have hurt her little girl. 

(Jungeun doesn’t dwell about giving Yerim a new name — it’s safe in her own head, anyway. She’ll worry about the growing attachment, later.)

Yerim appeared fine on the trip back home, albeit, quieter than usual. Jungeun chalked it up to it being a long day — it didn’t help that her own nine-to-five office job had her on her feet zipping around to meet deadlines, too. 

So when Yerim hurried up the staircase to her bedroom without a word, Jungeun figured she wanted to rest and be alone.

But not like this. 

“Yerim…?” 

Jungeun hesitates, pulling her hand back; it wouldn’t be appreciated if she were to yank the covers away, settling on the space beside Yerim on the bed instead. 

Muffled whimpers greet her back. 

It’s painful to hear — but even worse is that it feels like she can’t do anything about it. 

“I’m here, you know?” Jungeun reaches out, hand tentative on Yerim’s shoulder. “You can talk to me. But if you don’t want to, that’s okay too.”

She rubs her arm, gentle over the blanket, feeling the way Yerim trembles under her hand; it hurts seeing her this way — so vulnerable. She feels small. 

Yerim sniffles.

“...I said I wanted purple hair and they said I’d ruin the colour because I’m—I’m ugly...” 

The anger that shoots up her spine, her stomach, her throat, is volcanic — it’s frightening how petrifying her fury is as soon as the words sink in, that all she can do is curl her fingers into fists. 

Jungeun could choke on the frustration of it all and it’s overwhelming how intense she feels, how quick it triggers her to think up of plans to put them in their place — whoever they are. 

“...Who?” She says, manages to croak it out between seething anger and blistering contempt. 

Breathe in. Out. In. Out.

“...Some kids a year older than me.” 

Stupid kids. 

Yerim’s head slides out of the covers, spots the redness in her eyes, the tear tracks on her cheeks. 

“...Are you mad, mommy?” 

“Mad?” Jungeun would laugh if she wasn’t so _pissed_. “...I think I’m way past being mad.”

Warmth circles her wrist, Yerim’s tiny fingers barely looped around her skin; her touch soothes the smoke behind her eyes, the fire dissipating on her tongue. 

“...I’m okay,” Yerim sits up, tapping Jungeun’s nose. “See?” 

The fact that Yerim’s attempting to make _her_ feel better is heartbreaking. 

Stupid kids.

“You’re beautiful, Yerim.” Jungeun ignores the anger in favour of focusing on what truly matters — Yerim. “Purple hair, or not. You’re beautiful, and I’m not just saying that because I’m your mom.” 

Yerim doesn’t look convinced, the wry smile colouring her lips giving her away.

“...How do you know?” 

She tucks Yerim’s hair back, curls it behind her ear, watches brown strands flutter under her touch.

Jungeun grins. “Want to go get your hair done?” 

—

She’s done enough research to know that dyeing a child’s hair has more cons than benefits. 

Which is why she goes for the safer option: one without the requirement of bleach on the scalp. Costly but worth it. And for Yerim? She’d do anything for her. 

Frightening how much has changed since three months ago.

Yerim twirls around. “What do you think?” 

Purple streaks colour Yerim’s hair, weaving seamlessly between natural brown strands. 

“I was right,” Jungeun smiles, bends to hold Yerim up, keep her close, brushing locks of hair from twinkling eyes. “You’re beautiful, Yerim. And everyone’s going to finally see it, too.” 

The next day, when the bell rings and Jungeun’s waiting for Yerim at the parking lot, she spots her walking with a group of kids, laughing and grinning. 

Pride swells in her chest, recognizes the way happiness bleeds from Yerim’s eyes, to her lips, to the way she skips with every step. 

“I’m guessing you had fun?” Jungeun says as soon as Yerim’s close enough to hug, “You’re all smiley today.” 

“I had lots of fun! You wouldn’t believe it, mommy, they _love_ my hair!” Yerim gushes, jumping up and down like there’s too much energy to contain. “They said I look really pretty! They even said they were wrong — they actually said _sorry_. Isn’t that amazing?”

Jungeun laughs, pressing a soft kiss on her forehead. At least they know how to own up and apologize. Still. 

Stupid kids. 

“It really is.”

—

It’s by accident that Jungeun finds Yerim’s diary as she sweeps her room.

She has the day off, and since Yerim’s still at school, Jungeun figured she could just busy herself with doing chores, clean up the house because she hasn’t done so in a while.

Her broom bumps into something sturdy under Yerim’s bed, crouching to spot a notebook, sees Yerim’s name scrawled in with purple crayon.

A slip of paper peeks between the pages, curiosity getting the better of her. 

It’s a letter. 

_(Dear me,_

_It was a great day today. I made lots of new friends. They said my hair was pretty and that I was pretty too. But I told them mommy was the one who got me to colour it. They said she sounds cool. They’re not wrong._

_Mommy is cool._

_Is it weird that I hope we’re not pretending anymore? I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like we’re pretending. I know I’m not. Would she be mad at me if she knew?_

_When this is all over and I’m all alone again, at least I’ll have you to look back to._

_Be strong, me._

_—Your Penpal,_

_:D Choerry.)_

There’s a drawing taped to the letter; the one Jungeun found Yerim sketching a long time ago — when they still tip-toed around each other as strangers.

She doesn’t know what to say. 

_“Mommy?”_

Jungeun jumps, almost drops the journal before slipping the letter back, closing it shut and shoving it back beneath the bed as tiny steps creak up the stairs.

She’s back to sweeping just as the door swings open, concern written across Yerim’s face.

“Yerim! You’re home already?” Jungeun hopes her voice doesn’t give away anything, nerves crawling up her throat. “How did you get back? And how did you get in?”

“It’s half day today, remember?” Shoot, that was today? “And my friend said I could get a ride with her, so her parents dropped me off.” Yerim walks closer, worry etched on her lips. “You left the door open. I thought something bad happened to you…”

Apologies spill as soon as Yerim’s close enough to hold, hugs her tight and mutters as many sorry’s as it takes so Yerim isn’t teary-eyed anymore. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.” Jungeun says, feeling Yerim nod, her small hands coming up to grip her back. “I’ll make it up to you with dinner, okay? Anything you want.” 

She tries to stay immersed in the moment she spends with Yerim; in the kitchen helping bake cookies, splatter junk food instead of vegetables for tonight— but it’s hard to erase the images of Yerim’s letter and drawing from her mind’s eye. 

“Mommy, look — it’s a butterfly!”

Yerim sprinkles whip cream in the shape of what might look like a butterfly — with one wing much larger than the other.

How she calls her sounds so seamless, now. Almost natural. Jungeun’s hyper aware of how much she’s gotten used to hearing her new name, too. Responding back like it’s always been the truth.

It’s terrifying.

Were they still pretending?

“I wonder if I can make this purple…” Yerim says, mumbling under her sleeve.

Jungeun slots away the nagging complication of what it’ll mean if they aren’t, for later.

—

At times, Jungeun wonders if Jiwoo would appreciate being used as an accessory for her second life.

Childhood friends, surviving elementary school and all the way up to college together — they share more than a handful of secrets in this lifetime. 

Just not about the reason why she decided to become a single mother.

“She’s so cute! Not that I couldn’t already figure that out.” Jiwoo says between flipping through pictures of Yerim the orphanage compiled over the years she’d been there. “I can’t believe it, Jungie; you’re literally a _mom_.” 

Jungeun doesn’t have the heart to correct her that it’s all technically just pretend.

Noting how Yerim continues to shuffle her LEGO pieces as if she hasn’t already been scrambling them up for a few minutes now clearly shows she doesn’t want to correct her, either. 

“Yeah…” Jungeun clears her throat, thankful that Jiwoo’s too distracted with the pictures to notice their stiffness. “...Surprise?” 

“Definitely didn’t see this one coming,” Jiwoo leans back, still cooing at images where Yerim only knows how to crawl. “What made you decide?” 

Jungeun glances back in hopes to gauge Yerim’s expression, only to find her gone, the floor empty of LEGO like she was never there in the first place. 

She wonders if it’s okay that she doesn’t feel like telling Jiwoo the truth.

“...I just wanted to.”

—

It was inevitable they’d have fights.

The first few weren’t all that bad. Short bursts sprouting from simple things, arguing over candy wrappers littering the floor, to leaving the television on the entire night. 

Living with someone else twenty-four seven for every day of the week takes its toll on you. A mixture of discomfort and a need for space tends to boil over until someone snaps. 

Turns out Yerim’s short temper could rival her own. 

“...You don’t know anything.” Yerim says under her breath.

Jungeun winces at that.

They weren’t doing anything out of the ordinary; they were just putting together pieces to a puzzle — laughing and eating popcorn while the scenes played out to Frozen in the background.

She thought they were doing good; that they were closer than they could ever get — nestled in that comfortable space where they didn’t have to worry about tip-toeing around each other anymore.

_“Maybe next week we could do something really exciting — like an amusement park?”_ Jungeun had said a few minutes ago while looking for a piece to connect with Yerim’s, “ _Jiwoo’s been pestering me to take you there because she said the rides are fun. What do you think?”_

Yerim became eerily quiet afterwards, no longer assembling the pieces as eagerly as she was, before.

Was it because of that?

“What’s wrong? Was it something I said?” 

“...No.”

“Then what is it?”

Yerim shakes her head. “You wouldn’t understand.” 

Jungeun’s fingers squeeze her eyelids, breathing deep so the frustration doesn’t rise any higher than her chest. She doesn’t want it to reach her mouth. 

Yerim turns away. 

“...Don’t worry about it.” She starts walking, the gap between them growing larger. “You won’t get it.” 

Maybe it’s the defeat in her tone, the way there’s no hope in her voice — a lack of expectations implying that there’s no point in even trying with her, that tips Jungeun over the edge.

“Then why won’t you just tell me?” Jungeun’s trying to keep her words steady, hearing the way her voice shakes. “I can’t read minds, Yerim. How could I understand anything if you won’t tell me what the problem is?” 

Yerim pauses, but she doesn’t give anything away. Except the way her shoulders begin to shake.

Jungeun lowers her voice, more quieter, softer— and unsure. 

“...Did I do something wrong?” 

She doesn’t know what sets Yerim off, but something does, watching her spin with fury blazing across her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks. 

“It’s what you’re _going_ to do!” Yerim screams as if it’s all her lungs care to do, watches her huff with frustration burning on her tongue. “You’re going to leave like everyone else when it’s all over! I don’t want to get used to having a mommy just to end up losing one, again!” 

That’s all she says before she’s stomping up the stairs, hearing her door slam shut, leaving Jungeun to wallow in the silence that inevitably comes.

—

Jungeun attempts to make it up to her in fractions: an extra piece of dessert, an additional hour to stay awake before bed, less vegetables on Yerim’s plate — in hopes that maybe Yerim would spare her a moment of time, a minute, or even just for a second.

It helps. A little. 

Fractions of a smile here and there, a quick look to acknowledge she exists before returning to reading the next page on her third book, even a stiff nod is enough to make Jungeun elated. 

It was _something._

But it’s not until Yerim catches the flu that Jungeun gets more than just a passing glance. 

“...Mommy?” 

Jungeun’s heart leaps to her throat at the sound — croaky and hoarse, like it’s hard just to speak. 

Yerim’s at her bedroom door at half past midnight, holding onto her pillow, exhaustion looming over her eyes.

She leaps out of bed, kneels to see better, a hand to Yerim’s forehead. It’s way too hot. 

How did she not notice sooner?

“You’re burning up,” Jungeun attempts to guide her back to her room, feels her tug back. “Yerim? You need to rest; I’ll go get a —“ 

“...Can I sleep here with you?” Yerim’s voice is muffled against her pillow, but the words ring clear. “I don’t— I don’t want to be alone…”

Jungeun swallows down her heart when it jumps up her throat again, almost makes her choke on emotions she’s not used to feeling. 

She leads her to the bed, chest tight at the way Yerim’s fingers coil around her pinky. 

“Okay,” 

Yerim lays under the covers, exhaustion splayed out in how she sinks into the mattress without another word, eyes shut as soon as her head hits the pillow. 

“...I’m sorry,” Yerim mumbles as soon as Jungeun places a wet washcloth on her forehead.

Jungeun stiffens from surprise, but she recovers just as quickly, brushing away purple strands from Yerim’s eyes. 

The lamp on her nightstand provides just enough lighting to spot the weak smile on Yerim’s lips. 

“I’m sorry, too.” Jungeun knows what topic they’re dancing around on, unsure if she’s even ready for this conversation yet. “Just, go to sleep now. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. It’s late.” 

Yerim grips Jungeun’s hand, steers it away from her forehead to hold. 

“Whatever you decide to do…” she pauses, squeezing her hand. “...I’ll understand. So don’t worry about me. Okay?”

It’s when Yerim dozes off afterwards like she didn’t just pound her lungs with the inevitable, a choice she’d been trying to run from and pretend doesn’t exist, that Jungeun wonders if she even deserves Yerim in the first place.

—

Four months have passed as fast as the nightlights that flit by when Jungeun’s driving over the speed limit. 

Always with the same passenger on board; the thought that if things go wrong — if the assassination ends up successful, Yerim will end up alone. 

“It’s done,” Vivi says, meeting her gaze; there’s guilt and regret pooling beneath, feeling several eyes do the same, but Jungeun’s not here for pity. “I suggest you get ready for anything.” 

“We’ve been ready for four months,” Jungeun grips Yerim’s hand, feeling her squeeze it back under the table. “Right?”

“Right! I’ll protect you.” Yerim says, her grin wide.

She doesn’t know if she’ll be any good — if she’s going to even do well as a mother, or if Yerim might be better off without her, but Yerim’s her little girl and Jungeun’s not about to let go of her little girl. 

Yerim won’t be alone anymore.

“As soon as this is all over,” Jungeun pulls Yerim next to her, lifts her pinky finger when everyone else has left the briefing room. “We’ll be a real family, okay? I promise.” 

Yerim giggles, her tiny pinky curling around Jungeun’s. 

“I thought we already are?” 

She knows from the cheeky smile Yerim gives her that it’s a joke, but Jungeun yanks her in for a hug anyway, tighter and closer until her tears soak into Yerim’s sweater— feeling Yerim’s smile melt into her shoulder. 

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” She hiccups, joy bursting in her chest at the sound of Yerim’s laughter. “Always.”

She feels Yerim grip her back.

“...You sure cry a lot, mommy.”

Laughter bursts from her throat. She isn’t wrong. No one’s ever made her cry as much as Yerim does.

“That’s because you’re my little baby girl,” 

Jungeun grins at Yerim’s look of disgust, sees her shrivel up at the nickname. 

Yerim pouts against her neck, warmth breezing across Jungeun’s skin. It’s comforting.

“I’m nine, not three…” 

When they arrive home, staring up at the house they’ve learned to live in together the past four months, Jungeun would’ve never guessed they’d turn out the way they did. 

She wouldn’t change it for the world. 

“Ready?” Jungeun says.

This time, she doesn’t hesitate taking Yerim’s hand.

Yerim nods, smiling. “Ready.”

—

Nothing out of the ordinary happens for a week. 

Jungeun thought there’d be something different by now, but she’s going through her routine like it’s any other day: help Yerim get ready for school, make breakfast, and watch her go before leaving for work, herself.

She almost forgets that she’s on the job and not living a normal life when she’s inches away from turning on the ignition, spotting a flicker of dark hair disappearing behind the house next door.

Odd. 

She didn’t know there was a woman living there, too. 

Jungeun shelves the information for later.

—

With Yerim’s hand warm in hers, Jungeun never forgets to mind the silhouette in the window next door, nodding and humming all the while to Yerim’s storytelling of the day at school. 

She embeds as much as she can of the woman’s appearance in the few steps it takes to climb up her front porch.

The woman isn’t looking at her, gaze busy flicking through the papers in her hands. 

With the little time Jungeun has to memorize her picture, she sketches a rough portrait into her head: short hair, slim, tall (taller than herself, at least), and lean — catching a glimpse of the slopes of muscle on her stomach peeking between her open dress shirt. 

Jungeun turns away, mind whirring into overdrive. 

The old man next door hasn’t come out in two weeks.

“Mommy?” 

Yerim’s tugging her hand, pulling her into the house. Her brows are wrinkled into that look Jungeun knows all too well. 

She ruffles her hair. 

Jungeun trusts her gut; nothing really confirms that the woman next door is the hitman — _hitwoman_ , but it wouldn’t surprise her if she is.

“I think she’s here,” Jungeun kneels to meet Yerim eye-to-eye, smiles at the way she looks back, ever attentive. “Will you be okay?” 

“Will you?” She quips, like the question wasn’t meant for her at all.

She laughs, kissing Yerim’s cheek. 

“Always.” Jungeun squeezes her hand. “I mean, I have you, don’t I?” 

Yerim links their pinky fingers together, a smile painting her lips. 

“Always.” 

—

Scoping out a potential target isn’t always this passive — or boring.

She’s pretty to look at, at least.

“Pretty?” Yerim says, cocking her head.

Jungeun jerks back, flipping the curtains down just as the woman turns her way. 

“What?” 

“Pretty,” Yerim parrots, a Cheshire smile tracing her lips. “You said she’s pretty.” 

Jungeun groans. Definitely didn’t mean to say that out loud. 

Yerim pats her back. “It’s okay. I think she’s pretty, too.” 

It sounds almost ominous, the way Yerim grins like she’s got a plan, slithering away back into her room. 

Jungeun hopes it’s just nothing. 

—

Turns out it isn’t just nothing. 

“You wrote her a _letter?!_ ” 

Yerim fiddles with her fingers. “...Yeah.” 

Jungeun pinches the skin between her brows, feels frustration and worry bloom in her chest. 

“That’s dangerous,” 

Yerim pouts. “But I’m bored and you said you’d say hi and bring her blueberry muffins.”

Jungeun sighs, exasperated. Yerim isn’t wrong; she did mention wanting to bring a gift for their “new” neighbour, but not when she’s barely gathered any information about her.

“What does that have to do with anything?” 

“You didn’t say hi,” Yerim tilts her head, “so I said hi for you.” 

“That’s—” 

There’s a truckload of complaints piling up on her tongue, but there’s no point in spewing them when Yerim’s already skipping away, humming and asking about dinner for tonight. 

Jungeun can’t help the concern that seeps in her chest, hopes that any innocent mishap Yerim clearly wants to partake in won’t jeopardize what they have — and Yerim’s life. 

—

Yerim’s not at all subtle about sending the neighbor letters. 

Jungeun catches her sprinting down the stairs all too often, constantly reminding her to be careful - before Yerim’s leaping out the front porch, padding down the sidewalk, and yanking the mailbox open. 

She’d call it cute if she wasn’t so terrified every time. 

She tries to see the pros of it - and there’s plenty, especially since Yerim’s essentially building a rapport with the potential assassin; if the smile on the woman’s face each time she plucked Yerim’s letter out of the pile was any indication. 

“Did you see, mommy?! She smiled at me!” 

“I did,” Jungeun says, ruffles Yerim’s hair and ushers her to the kitchen. “You’re doing a much better job at this than I am. Now go eat, the bus is coming soon.” 

—

Sometimes she’s at work — the fake one, the one she’s stuck at with uptight superiors and coworkers too nosy for gossip about the latest news; eager to get their minds whirring away on anything but the excel spreadsheets they’re supposed to be filling.

Jungeun supposes an ordinary nine-to-five office job will do that to you. 

It doesn’t bother her as much. 

Keeping up appearances is easy, and the simple calm of being alone in a cubicle with nothing else to do but look at reports all day is a nice break from the ‘death-will-come-if-you’re-not-careful’ type of field work she’s used to.

“Did you hear? The ambassador’s son is arriving tonight.” 

Jungeun perks up, thankful the walls are thinner than they look. 

“How do you even know this?” 

“The internet, duh.” It’s a woman, voice lowering to a whisper that Jungeun strains to hear the rest. “Word has it he’s fucking the president’s daughter.” 

“Wait, does the president know?!”

Someone laughs, papers shuffling. 

“Honey, there’s no way he doesn’t know, now. Look,” 

Jungeun frowns, hearing chairs squeak before something plays, the soft timber of an audio recording fluttering through. 

Her eyes widen at the moans spilling into her ears. 

“He’s a piece of shit,” the woman says, “she’s definitely going to have his head for this, if her dad doesn’t get it first.”

Jungeun doesn’t really think much of it. Drama is everywhere — at least the gossip columns will have something new to talk about.

—

Some days, Jungeun forgets that this had started out as just pretend.

She goes through the motions on autopilot, absorbed in the tranquility of a quiet life with a child she’s learned to love, appreciating the silent moments when they’re just living for two. 

Sometimes they’re tending the flowers, a spectrum of colours just as bright as Yerim’s purple hair, or baking cookies in the kitchen, impatiently waiting for the timer to sound when the smell wafts through the room. 

Jungeun even learned how to let time slip by on the couch in front of the television for a cartoon they both happen to enjoy instead of burying herself in case files that leave her stomach churned and heart coiled with dread.

She wouldn’t mind spending the rest of her lifetime like this.

But phone calls from Vivi and Jinsol about the latest sudden deaths of officials are cruel realities that make her realize the woman next door might never let her have this.

Jungeun recognizes the man; the ambassador’s son - made to look like a suicide by hanging. 

Guess it wasn’t pointless gossip.

_“I don’t think it’s a coincidence that your ‘neighbor’ just so happens to be a few meters within the vicinity,”_ Jinsol says, reporting the latest death in a series of too many within a single week over the line. _“I mean, sure, we haven’t caught her near any of the others’ but still. The counts are increasing and with how recent these are to coincide with her moving in, I don’t know. It’s fishy.”_

Jungeun stares a little longer at the pictures, focused on how clean it is - no visible struggle, his suit still pressed down like it had just gotten out of the dry cleaner’s. 

_“Jungeun? You with me?”_

She blinks at that, shakes off the images from her eyes, closing the tab. 

“Right, sorry.” 

Jinsol’s voice quiets. _“Something’s bothering you. I could tell. What is it?”_

It’s frightening to think that she could just as easily be found on the other side of that photo - be the one dead, effortlessly made to look like she’d done it on her own to the public eye. The reminder is haunting. 

“Nothing,” 

—

“I don’t like pretending…” Yerim says, fiddling with her Rubik’s cube. 

Jungeun understands. Yerim shouldn’t be dealing with something like this — she shouldn’t be responsible for anything else but her homework and what she should wear for the next day. 

“I know,” she crouches, tucks purple hair behind Yerim’s ear. “But just for a little longer, okay?” 

Little by little her team’s been gathering intel; half of them tracing the neighbor’s steps, the other surveying the house. Cameras aren’t present on the outside, but inside, Jungeun’s sure there would be several; hitmen would make sure their home wasn’t compromised. 

She wonders if she should take that chance now; offer up blueberry muffins as a gift she hasn’t done yet for a peek on the inside. 

“Okay,” Yerim says, but she still looks sullen when she settles to sit at the front porch, resting against the railing. 

Jungeun’s about to turn away to gather the rest of her things before she hears a soft clink, spotting their neighbour returning home. 

She watches the way she eyes Yerim, gaze hazy with emotions Jungeun can’t discern, before the neighbor settles for a “good morning”. 

There’s a gentleness in her voice, much softer than she looks. Jungeun wonders if deceit comes as easy as breathing, for her. 

Jungeun smiles when she sees Yerim’s head rise up, her shoulders no longer low like the world weighed her down. 

—

Jungeun didn’t expect her neighbor to be the one giving out blueberry muffins. 

Finding Yerim at the door talking to a stranger ignited a sense of urgency that all Jungeun thought about was keeping her safe. But she didn’t expect to face the assassin so soon - and so close. 

“Hi, I’m the new neighbor. Yves.” Her mind whirs at the realization, attempts to absorb as much information as possible - the lilt in her voice, the ease in which she carries herself, the name she’d just provided. “I just thought I should say hello.” 

When Yerim goes on a tangent about the name, Jungeun appreciates the brief reprieve she gives her, relief settling into her bones for the chance to just _breathe._

She needs to play her part. 

Meaningless apologies spill from her lips to make up for the short exchange they had a few days ago, recalling that spilling coffee on the assassin - _Yves,_ wasn’t part of the plan. A momentary lapse of judgment as soon as she realized the distance between them was shorter than five feet apart. 

“Just— sorry. Again.” It comes easier the more she says it, reminds herself that she isn’t alone in this. “I’m Jungeun. Kim Jungeun.” 

“And I’m Choerry!” 

Yves smiles. “Nice to meet you.” 

Maybe it’s the rush of adrenaline pumping in her veins, or the sense of security that comes with knowing she had bugged her own house for opportunities like this, that Jungeun jumps head first - finally sets it all in motion. 

She steps aside, plasters on a smile of her own. 

“Would you like to come in? I’ve made dinner enough for all of us.” 

—

Yves’ excuses are sound. 

Her life story is likely rehearsed, made to be convincing that no one would bother to think twice. And Jungeun would’ve fallen for it like anyone else. 

Except Yves’ only here because Jungeun volunteered to be her target.

_“Her background checks in,”_ Jinsol says, her voice clear through the earpiece. _“Whoever is backing her is good.”_

“We wouldn’t be here if they weren’t,” Jungeun flips through what little files they have on Yves — which barely makes up a single page. “Looks like she’s on her ninth name.” 

_“We’re not sure if she’s the same person who’s responsible for those deaths in Marrakesh two months ago,”_ Jinsol pauses, _“some of the aliases I’ve found are ‘Eden’, ‘Nine’, ‘Burgundy’, and ‘Olivia’. But the only thing they have in common is that they’re women.”_

“And killers,” 

She swears she could feel Jinsol’s eyes roll. 

_“Obviously.”_

Jungeun feels a tug on her leg, finding Yerim gazing up at her, purple pillow cradled close to her chest.

“It’s bedtime, mommy.” 

_“Wow, she has to remind_ you _to go to sleep? Never thought I’d see the day.”_

“Goodnight, Jinsol.” 

Jungeun clicks the line off just as Jinsol starts to speak again, tucking away her earpiece to carry Yerim to bed. 

“More work stuff?” Yerim asks as she settles under the covers.

Jungeun follows after her, loves how natural it feels to be with Yerim; like it should’ve been this way from the start. 

“Yeah, just the usual evening updates.” 

Yerim snuggles closer, warmth spreading across Jungeun’s chest. 

“...Eevee seems nice,” 

Jungeun chuckles; how innocent and naive. 

“They always are.” 

“I hope we can be friends…” 

She hears how Yerim’s voice tapers at the end, feels her breaths steady, the curtains falling over her eyes. 

Jungeun lifts the blankets so it nestles just beneath Yerim’s chin, and watches until her own eyelids fall shut. 

She doesn’t have the heart to tell Yerim they probably will never be.

—

A slap to the face early in the morning was _not_ what she ordered at her favourite cafe to start the day.

Even when it’s been five hours since the exchange, Jungeun’s still stunned. And a little miffed. 

“You didn’t think to let me know beforehand?” She cups her cheek out of reflex, recalls how much it stung the moment it registered in her head that yes, that just happened. “And why did you even slap me?” 

Her colleague shrugs like it meant nothing the moment she walks up to his desk, the arch of his brow and sly smile giving him away.

“Vivi said to make you look vulnerable. Like you need protection. Get ‘Miss Lady Killer’ to start being friendly with you.” She scoffs. Really? That tired cliche? She deserves better. “That was just to make it more convincing.” 

Jungeun huffs. “It still hurts.”

He rolls his eyes, shoves her off his desk when she attempts to sit. 

“Hey, I was the one who nearly got his wrist broken, okay. That was _not_ fun.” 

Jungeun scoffs. “I almost gave us away out of shock.” 

“We knew you wouldn’t, or else you wouldn’t have lasted this long working here.” Vivi comes in dressed in aviators and a smug smile. “At least we know a little more; she clearly knows how to incapacitate.”

“She did say she had lessons,” 

Jungeun recalls the way Yves had cared for her afterwards. It felt out of line, a brief showcase of emotion — like it wasn’t supposed to happen. 

“She would,” Vivi hums. “That goes for any trained killer.” 

Jungeun rolls her eyes. 

Vivi pats her shoulder. “But good thinking on your part offering her dinner. How long do you think you could keep her busy tonight?” 

Jungeun shrugs. 

“Ten, fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes. She doesn’t seem to eat much.” She pauses, remembers the way Yves listens whenever Yerim speaks. “Yerim is usually the one keeping her preoccupied.” 

Vivi looks thoughtful. “It’s always the little kids, huh.” 

Jungeun wouldn’t blame her. Innocence always seems fascinating to those who don’t have it— scarred by a reality where it no longer exists. 

Yerim breathes colour in people’s lives as bright as her hair.

Jinsol pops in with a box of pizza, jabs one in Jungeun’s direction, words spilling between her obnoxious chewing. 

“We’ll let you know how the set up goes, but for now,” she swallows, hears it go down her throat. “Hurry up and eat or else I’m finishing it all.”

—

With each successful invitation Jungeun offers to get Yves out of her house, she buys her team a bit of time to get through the security system, sneak into the cameras Yves had set up on the inside.

It’s almost terrifying how easy it is when the predator has no idea you’re not exactly prey. 

But it’s moments like these that hit her like a speeding truck of just how quick it could turn around.

Jinsol is furious. 

“She could’ve _killed_ you!” She’s pacing, ebony strands swishing and swirling with every rigid turn. “She was _going_ to kill you!” 

“I can see that,” Jungeun rubs her temples, she can’t think with how frazzled and jittery Jinsol’s steps are, the sound oozing like poison and spilling into her skin. “But she didn’t.” 

Jinsol’s pulling at her scalp, black hair taut between her fingers, a frustrated scream squeezing between gritted teeth.

Jungeun winces as if it were her own head. 

“Sol, we both knew it was going to happen.” 

“That’s exactly the problem!” Jinsol’s shrill, panic drawing over her eyes. “Does that not bother you?!” 

She can’t say it doesn’t have her heart racing in her chest, a chill quaking across her bones; facing her mortality through a screen is a shocking reminder of just how short life could be. 

She’d rather not tell Jinsol that, though. She’s already panicking enough as it is.

Thank god she had those tiny cameras installed in her bedroom. Not that it could’ve done anything to protect her, but it made damning evidence that Yves is indeed what they all thought she was.

Still. To move with ease, so silent, and she never once heard her? Impressive. And dangerous. 

Jungeun’s survived numerous close calls as frightening as last night, but it never gets any easier to experience.

“I told you Yerim would protect you,” 

Vivi comes in like a dump of cold water, icing her nerves and cooling off the fumes in Jinsol’s legs, halting her pacing. 

Jinsol’s still breathing as if smoke is spilling between her teeth, fire hot on her tongue.

“That was just luck,” Jinsol says.

“So is the fact that Jungeun’s still alive,” Vivi quips, arms folding over her chest. “She could have just as easily killed her earlier. Like at the cafe, or on the front porch. Or at every dinner they’ve already had. But she didn’t.” 

Jinsol sighs. 

Vivi clicks her tongue.

“Luck isn’t easy to come by, but when it does with a killer who happens to have a soft spot for children, then we better make the most of it.” Vivi pauses, lets the silence weigh in. “Yerim’s buying us time that we probably wouldn’t have had if Jungeun chose any other role to play.” 

“Why can’t we just take her in now?” Jinsol gestures to the footage, video paused at the moment Yves was about to pull the trigger— and never does. “We have more than enough proof. Clearly.” 

“And lose our only lead?” Vivi shakes her head, uncrossing her arms. “The moment we do, she’s considered a loose end the ICA won’t hesitate to tie up. We’re here for their head — not their finger. Besides, we’ve already tried that once before, and look how that turned out.” 

Jungeun remembers that case — the trail had gone cold, but just when they were about to get Kim Hyunjin to talk, she no longer could. 

All she had left behind was a blood-stained letter written for J.H. Whoever that is.

“Fine!” Jinsol throws her hands up, stalking back to her office. “Whatever. See if I care.” 

Jungeun gets it, the concern Jinsol can’t shake off. It’s natural. 

The only reason she thinks this could work is because she’s _seeing_ it work. Jungeun can’t count the number of opportunities Yves didn’t take to have her head— there’s too many. 

Yves could have easily killed her off the moment she arrived next door; she didn’t have to settle in, bother with moving and playing the friendly neighbor. 

Maybe she’s the type who likes to wait, play a long game before she gets sick of it and move on to the next best thing. Jungeun will count her blessings, whatever the reason is. 

She hopes Yves’ growing friendship (if she could even call it that) with Yerim stays for a little while longer. 

—

Jungeun doesn’t know how to feel about the warmth in her chest when Yves looks at her that way.

She’s familiar with certain gazes, recognizes which is a threat, and which isn’t. Categorize them in terms of romantic, or eerie. There’s a spectrum of looks people tend to give, eyes revealing what lips usually don’t until they’re already established — had a date, or two, or three.

Jungeun’s not sure if she’s reading it right, or if Yves’ a brilliant actress who can manipulate even the emotions in her eyes.

“You’re drooling,” Yves says, her gaze carrying more than Jungeun is used to.

Banter comes easy.

“...Shut up.” Closing the distance, gripping Yves for support as she wobbles out of her seat. She knew the movie was boring, but it was longer than most and she knew her team would appreciate it. “Not my fault you were comfortable.”

She knows better than to let her guard down, take a quick nap next to the woman assigned to get rid of her. 

But she took a chance on Yves’ continuous mercy because her eyes have been coloured with hesitation rather than killer intent and that brewed curiosity.

She couldn’t resist testing out how far she could get away with knowing Yves’ been letting her live.

_“Did you buy us more time?”_ Jinsol says, like she always does with every evening update before bed.

Jungeun slides into her desk chair, props open her laptop for restaurants that are distant enough to give them extra amount of time without needing to worry about coming up with conversations of her own to make up for it.

Being alone with Yves and surviving it is making her bolder to find longer trips.

“I asked her to lunch,” she scrolls through the menu of one, eyes the specials for the week. “Will have it happen sometime this week. How far have you guys gotten?” 

_“Just need to bug it for audio, now.”_ There’s paper rustling in the background, crackling through the earpiece. _“Made a backdoor through her security system; she won’t notice we have access unless she knows to look for it.”_

As long as she never raises suspicion, plays her part as a single-mother with a daughter looking to make new friends, Yves will never know.

“How long do you need?”

_“A few hours, tops.”_

She finds several restaurants to try out, knows Yves hasn’t once declined any of her invites. As for why, Jungeun wonders if it’s because she’s looking for the right moment to do her job — or if she’s the type of predator who enjoys the thrill of making a chase last.

Either way, Jungeun knows who’s really prey. 

“Consider it done.” 

—

Sometimes, she forgets she’s out with Yves as a job and not because she enjoys her company. 

It doesn’t help that she’s no longer worried about Yerim scampering off every morning to send her letters; knows Yves will never hurt her (why she even has this confidence is preposterous— but it’s there). 

Yerim’s munching on cereal, words spilling between her teeth. 

“Has Eevee ever tried to hurt you?”

Jungeun’s spoon pauses halfway to her mouth, lowers it so she could see Yerim’s curious expression. 

She tells the truth.

“No,”

“Why not?”

Jungeun gives her a look — one Yerim returns easily. 

Good question. Her team thinks it’s luck, and maybe it was, initially. 

But now? 

Jungeun lifts her spoon. “I don’t know,”

“Maybe it’s because she likes you,” 

She chokes on her food, feels it get stuck in her throat, coughing as Yerim passes her tissues like she already expected it. 

Jungeun pounds her chest. “W-What?!” 

“What?” 

“What makes you think that?” 

“Because she’s my friend,” 

Yerim goes back to eating her cereal, like she didn’t just make her choke on surprise. 

“She told you that?” 

“No,” Yerim pauses, swallowing. “She spends time with us. Doesn’t that mean she likes us?”

Jungeun should’ve known it’s not what she thought it’d be — which is a relief, of course. She already has too many things to worry about.

“Right,” 

“She’s coming over by the way,” Yerim says, a smile on her lips. “She’s gonna help me build the one thousand puzzle piece my teacher got me.” 

Jungeun reels back, bewildered that Yerim didn’t let her know in advance — worse, that she’s invited Yves on her own. 

“You have to be careful,” she reaches for Yerim’s free hand, encourages her to look up. “She’s not — she’s not really a friend.” 

Yerim frowns. “But she is,” 

“Yerim,” 

“You said she never hurt you,” 

Jungeun sighs. “That doesn’t mean she won’t,” 

“And it doesn’t mean she will,” 

It’s naive and childish; a stark reminder that Yerim’s still just a kid.

“Yerim—“ 

There’s a knock on the door, halts the rest of the words from escaping her lips.

_“Hello? It’s me, Yves.”_

Yerim yanks her hand away, a bristling chill crawling up Jungeun’s arm as she watches Yerim stomp up the stairs without sparing a glance. 

Jungeun shuffles to the door.

“Hi,” 

A shy smile graces Yves’ lips.

“Hi,” Yves lifts a box of donuts, “I wasn’t sure what to get, but I figured anything sweet would make up for it.” 

Jungeun ignores the twinge in her chest, pretends the instinctive want to smile is because she has to put up a front and not because Yves makes her lips curl upwards.

“Thanks, you really didn’t have to.” 

She’s hyper aware of her hands, avoids touching Yves’ in fear that the tremor in her knees will get worse if she does. 

“I wanted to,” 

Yves makes it hard to look away.

“Thanks, um,” Jungeun curls her hair behind her ear, looks back to check if maybe Yerim had come down to join them. She hasn’t. “Yerim’s just getting her puzzle. I’ll go get her so you can wait in the living room, okay?” 

“Okay,” 

—

Yerim’s curled up in bed, shielded beneath her blankets. 

Jungeun settles beside her, rests a hand on her shoulder, this scene all too familiar. 

“Yerim?” 

“...Go away,” 

Jungeun sighs. “I know you think she’s your friend,” 

“ _Our_ friend,” Yerim quips.

Jungeun isn’t sure about that. 

“Maybe,” she pauses, lets the syllables roll on her tongue. “But it doesn’t hurt to be careful. Some people are really good at pretending,” 

“Like us?” 

Jungeun flinches, thankful Yerim’s back is turned to her. 

“...Yes, like us.” She says, low like a whisper. “And I don’t want you to get hurt.” 

She can hear the pout in Yerim’s voice. “Eevee won’t hurt me,” 

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because why would she?”

Jungeun rubs her shoulder, attempts to soothe the stiffness she feels lining Yerim’s body.

“Maybe to hurt me,” 

Yerim turns over, gaze sharp in protest, gripping her hand. 

“I told you, remember?” She feels her squeeze, “I’ll protect you.” 

It’s corny to hear it from anyone else, but it’s Yerim, and Yerim isn’t just anyone else. 

Jungeun squeezes back. 

She knows Yerim means it; she already did, once — that night Yves had crept into her room, inches away from pulling the trigger.

But how long will it take before Yerim’s luck no longer includes her?

“She’s waiting for you downstairs,” she smiles, nods her head towards the door. “Go get your puzzle.” 

Yerim springs from the bed, an excited squeal piercing Jungeun’s ears, tiny arms looping around her neck, a sloppy kiss pressing against her cheek. 

“Thank you!” She lets go to rummage through her drawer, pulls out a box half her size, scurrying back to tug her wrist. “Come build it with us!” 

Jungeun isn’t sure she has a place in the little friendship bubble Yerim shares with Yves, but with Yerim’s toothy grin and Yves’ timid smile, she squeezes between them and tries.

She spends half the time observing the way they interact; recognizes the sun on Yerim’s face and the soft edges on Yves’ lips.

She wonders if Yves even notices she’s dropped her guard.

The puzzle pieces clicking together sound quiet and light compared to the ruckus her heart makes, drumming against her eardrums— growing louder whenever she bumps her fingers against Yves’.

It doesn’t help when Yves’ “Sorry,” is just as gentle as her eyes, her heat lingering like a ghost on her skin.

Jungeun pretends it doesn’t make butterflies stir in her stomach.

—

When Jungeun gets to HQ, Jinsol’s scurrying up to her, grabbing her shoulders — frantic, fear smouldering her eyes. 

“Jungeun, help me!” 

Jungeun yelps, jerks back because _ow,_ what a grip she has. 

“With what?”

“Vivi wants me to play _bait!_ ” Jinsol shakes her, the vigorous motion making her dizzy. “Why can’t I just stay here?! Please, convince her to let me stay!” 

Confusion looms in her head, catching Vivi approach them from her office, an amused smile adorning her lips.

Jungeun yanks Jinsol’s grip off her. 

“What is she talking about?” She says, rolls her eyes when Jinsol slumps against her, whining in her arms. “And Sol, just—“ Her palm presses flat against Jinsol’s face, attempts to shove her away. “— will you please just let go— _hey_! Watch where you’re grabbing!” 

Vivi chuckles. “She’s going on the field with you for a bit,” 

Jungeun scoffs, igniting Jinsol’s whine. 

“What for?” 

“It’s like she said; to play bait.” She crosses her arms, tilts her head. “Yves has clearly warmed up to you. As much as possible, she’s trying to delay the fact that she’s here to kill you— for whatever reason. But I don’t care why, I just want to make sure she doesn’t run out of those excuses. So what better way than to distract her with a new target to pick on?” 

Jinsol’s whining grows louder. “See?!” 

Jungeun pretends she can’t hear her.

“Wouldn’t that just lead her to you? To us?” 

“We already have a fake profile ready for her,” Vivi says, calm. “It’ll lead to a dead end, and even then, just getting there is time consuming. But it’s long enough for us to go digging through her hard drives.” 

“But what if she just decides to kill me?!” Jinsol groans, slumping against Jungeun. “You’re all _insane_!” 

“She’s not going to kill you,” Vivi smirks, arching a brow. “She’ll be too busy wallowing at the fact that you’re Jungeun’s ‘Ex-Wife’.” 

“Ex- _cuse me?!_ ” 

Jungeun can’t tell which of them said it first — just that they both did. 

“You heard me. In fact, Jungeun’s already done half of the work for us.” Vivi shoots her a wink, “You were the one who mentioned an ex, remember?” She spins on her heel, waving over her shoulder, walking off back in the direction of her office. “Now go. Jinsol, you have a heart to break and Jungeun, keep doing what you’re doing and mend it.”

Jungeun doesn’t know what to think — doesn’t know what to feel. 

Jinsol’s seething, jabbing a finger against Jungeun’s forehead.

“This is _your_ fault?!” 

Jungeun swats it away. “Hey, I had to come up with an excuse on the _spot_! You guys should’ve _told_ me I was going to get slapped!” 

—

Jinsol standing at her doorstep, looking deader than the corpses Yves leaves behind, almost has her falling over, laughter eager to spill from her lips.

“This is suicide,” 

Jungeun just snorts.

“...Do I _have_ to call you mama?” Yerim looks unimpressed, her tone matching her complete disinterest. “You look scary.”

Jinsol doesn’t bat an eye. “Trust me, kid. I don’t want to be here, either.” 

Jungeun snickers, crouching to fix that collar of Yerim’s sweater. 

“It’ll only be for a little while, so be good, okay?” Jungeun smiles, cups Yerim’s ear as if to whisper, though her voice isn’t any lower. “Just say the word, and she’ll do it for you. You’re the boss.” 

Yerim gasps out of glee; Jinsol’s sounds mortified.

“ _I’m_ the boss?!”

“Woah— hey, what the, we did _not_ agree to this—!“ 

Yerim cheers. “I’m the _boss!_ ” 

Jungeun watches Yerim drag Jinsol away with a hop to each step, laughter raucous and bright, a stark contrast to Jinsol’s more quiet, rapid-fire stammering. 

She tries not to think too hard about the fact that she’ll be spending the entire weekend alone with Yves — that is, if she says yes.

Why the thought makes her nervous — and _not_ in the typical _‘I’m-going-to-get-killed’_ type of jitters, is another problem entirely. 

She pinches her arm. “Get yourself together,” 

Jungeun breathes in deep, hopes it’s enough to soothe her racing heart, and marches off towards Yves’ house.

—

She said yes.

Once the initial shock wore off, Jungeun scrambled for something they could do together — shopping came first.

Jungeun holds up the sweater against Yves, hums in approval, pushes to have her carry it.

“That’ll be yours,” 

Yves’ gaze flutters between the sweater she’s now holding, and the one still in Jungeun’s hand.

“...You sure like to make things match,”

“Yup,” Jungeun arches a brow, “is that a problem?”

Yves grows sheepish, scratching her neck, ears glowing pink. Her gaze meets the floor.

“...No, I guess not.”

Jungeun hates that the first thing that comes to mind is how cute Yves looks. She didn’t think anyone could still ooze charm by being embarrassed. 

She clears her throat. 

“Well, now it’s your turn.” Jungeun grins at the startled look painting across Yves’ eyes. “Choose something for us to wear.” 

“And still match?” 

Chuckles escape easily. “Yes,” 

Yves makes checking clothes look like they’re going to war. The way she surveys the colours as if it were a layout of the land, expression hard, like battle tactics were stumbling around in her head.

Jungeun’s well aware of how her heart rate quickens, hears it pump in her ears, glee thrumming her veins. She feels lightheaded.

Out of all the methods Yves uses to take out her targets, Jungeun isn’t sure she’d want her friends to know she could get killed with this one.

“Will these two work?”

Jungeun blinks, finds Yves lift two hoodies, the childish image warming Yves’ cheeks — like she knows this isn’t what she’s supposed to be doing.

Jungeun can feel her own ears heat up, too.

“They’re perfect,” 

—

It feels like a date.

Jungeun didn’t mean to make it that way. There just isn’t much else to do when you’re only two people and no one else is present to help fill in the silence. 

She can’t tell if her awkwardness comes because she’s now aware of it.

“Let’s try those out,” Jungeun’s desperate for a distraction, eager to erase the quiet that has become all too comfortable. “I bet I’ll win all of them.“

“Are you sure?” A playful smile spreads across Yves’ face. 

Jungeun turns away before she stares any longer than necessary. 

“Watch me.” 

She doesn’t know why she’s being competitive; maybe it’s because she’s trying to fight against the obvious tremor in her chest, refuses to acknowledge what it means because she already knows the answer — _and it shouldn’t be._

“...’Dance Dance Revolution’?” Yves peers at the menu screen, “You know how to dance?” 

Jungeun climbs onto the platform, steps on the arrows, grinning. 

“You’ll see,” 

It takes her back to high school, when she had too much free time and Jiwoo had too much energy — they didn’t know where else to spend it. 

The steps come easy, motions fluid like it’s a part of her. Left, right, up, down— she should do this more often. 

“You weren’t kidding,” Yves’ significantly closer, feels her gaze’s weight now that she remembers she’s not alone, scarring her cheek. “You certainly don’t have two left feet.” 

Jungeun hates that that’s all it takes for her to lose her rhythm, chasing after arrows she misses by seconds. 

Yves’ laughter blooms through.

“...I guess I spoke too soon?”

Jungeun rolls her eyes, a lopsided smile catching her lips.

“Shut up,” 

The rest of the game goes fine, score lower than she’d like, the ‘Game Over’ screen blinking back at her. 

Embarrassing, and she certainly didn’t mean to lose her momentum, but if it makes Yves loosen up enough to laugh, Jungeun finds herself realizing she wouldn’t mind repeating it.

“Good job, Happy Feet.” Yves says, grinning ear to ear. “You managed to at least finish the game.” 

Jungeun stumbles off the platform, wobbling from tired knees and a nickname— which Yves seems too pleased to have come up with, her gaze twinkling with mischief.

_Happy Feet? Did she just—_

“Woah, there. You okay?”

Yves’ breathing feels too close, registers her arms around her, comfortable and snug. The thought of how she _doesn’t_ want to move is suffocating.

Jungeun jerks back, makes sure the gap is twice as big.

“‘Happy Feet’? Really?” 

Yves’ laughter makes her warm. “It’s cute, isn’t it?”

Jungeun turns away in hopes that Yves can’t see her go pink. 

—

Jungeun doesn’t know when the mission went from catching a killer to catching feelings.

She has enough self-awareness to know what the signs mean: a nervous tongue, jittery fingers, weak knees, blushing cheeks — it feels like she’s spent the whole weekend with an old-school valentine crush.

Jinsol would kill her if she knew.

“...I think I just lost ten years of my life.” 

Jinsol’s voice shakes, breathing out like she’d been holding everything in — her nerves come out in a sigh, relief washing over her limbs, her shoulders dropping from their rigid stupor. 

It’s hard to stifle the laugh from bursting out of her throat, but she swallows it down; they’ve come too far just for her to give it all away, now.

“You were so stiff,” Jungeun half-whispers, half-shouts; Jinsol improved with her acting, no doubt. But if she had cracked any earlier, well. She’d rather not know what would’ve happened next. “She better not have caught on.”

“It’s not my fault a trained killer was literally two steps away from me. Thank god she wanted to leave.” Jinsol’s furrowed brows and frantic eyes are telling of the jitters on her fingers, “To think you can even keep this up for weeks now— you’re insane.” 

She would’ve thought the same: several weeks, months, earlier. Hell, she’d even say it’s because she’s just used to playing mind games — building endurance over the years.

But then Yves has somehow slithered her way into her chest, lingering even in her head when the sun is up and staying when night falls, that sometimes it just comes easy. Jungeun can’t remember when the lines started to blend together.

It doesn’t feel like a game anymore. Or at least, she’s not playing the same one everyone else is.

She probably _has_ gone insane.

“Whatever.” Jungeun nudges her forward, “Just go and do your job.” 

“I don’t want to,” Jinsol whines, but she’s moving towards the door, dragging her feet, shoulders slouched. “Why can’t I play the babysitter instead of a false lead?”

“Because Jiwoo’s already got that covered,” she pushes her back, peers over to see Yves already on the sidewalk. “Now shoo, hurry up and make her be suspicious of you.”

“Haven’t I already done that as your wife?” 

“ _Ex_ -Wife,” Jungeun clicks her tongue, shoves her out the door. “And no, you just made her think I was unavailable.” 

“Since when did you even want to be _avail_ —“ 

Jungeun shuts the door. Jinsol should just do her job — not question her authority. 

She lifts Yerim into her arms, smiles when she feels her yawn and snuggle closer.

“Now let’s get you to bed.”

—

_“We need you back at HQ,”_

Her cup pauses halfway to her mouth, coffee swirling to stop. 

“Why? What happened?” 

_“It’s important and no, not over the phone.”_ Vivi’s voice sounds grim, curt replies sending chills down her spine. _“Just get here quickly. And don’t bring Yerim.”_

Jungeun frowns. “I’m not going to just leave her—“ 

_“Have your friend babysit her,”_

“Vivi—“ 

The line ends, a dull dial tone left in her wake.

Jungeun slumps back into her seat, watches the kettle whistle, Yerim’s favourite show playing in the background with Yerim singing along to the theme song. 

She dials the first person that comes to mind.

_“Sorry Jungeunie,”_ Jiwoo says, distracted. _“I’m actually at work right now.”_

“Oh, right. Thanks anyway.” 

Jungeun stares at her list of contacts — if she could even call it that, consisting of just the important few. But the ones she could trust are already either waiting for her at work, or Jiwoo. 

Her thumb hovers over a name she’s spent months preparing for with a new life — and hesitates.

Ironic that the most dangerous happens to also be the safest. Especially for Yerim.

The line clicks open.

_“Jungeun?”_

She curls her hair back, eyes the way Yerim is engrossed with the television. 

“Hi, Yves. I know this is such short notice, but I was wondering if I could ask you for a favour…”

_“Of course,”_ it’s almost heartbreaking how accommodating Yves is, makes the guilt grow larger than it already has. _“What do you need?”_

—

Jungeun’s gotten used to her new life — quiet, normal, and mundane; shared with two people she’s learned to cherish. 

One who never stops running after butterflies and cockroaches and the other — silent but always present, often lingering in her head.

So it feels like she’d stepped on a land mine as soon as she’s within earshot of a meeting already going on without her.

“We’re taking her in,” 

There’s a chill in the room, several gazes meeting hers across the large oval table — with Vivi at the head. 

Jungeun frowns. “What are you talking about?” 

“Someone’s hacked into our system, deleted most of the files. Replaced it all with pictures of birds— like it’s a joke.” Jinsol says, seated by the door. “Turns out our Lovely Lady Killer’s got a backdoor of her own.”

“How do you know it was her?”

“We don’t,” Vivi rubs her temples, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. “In fact, I’m almost positive it isn’t.” 

“Then why take her in?”

“So whoever it is can get the message that we’re not to be taken lightly.” 

Jungeun crosses her arms, head whirring for possibilities — none of them look good. 

“Didn’t you say it wasn’t worth the risk? That it’d end up like Kim Hyunjin?”

Vivi frowns. “Then what do you propose?” 

That’s the problem; she doesn’t have an idea, either. But she knows at least one thing: she’s not about to shatter the little world Yerim and Yves shares. 

At least, not yet. 

Her team doesn’t need to know that Yves isn’t the only one trying to come up with excuses to delay the inevitable.

Jungeun surveys the wall of photos, articles, and timelines, her team has conjured up over the years on the International Contract Agency — various streaks of red connecting to too many high-profile events and not enough culprits.

“Give me time,” Jungeun says, eyes the picture of Yves snapped from a footage showing where the ambassador was killed. “I’ll think of something.” 

“And you want us to just sit around while you play house with a killer?” Jinsol’s brows furrow, bottom lip jutted out, concern wrinkling her skin. 

Jungeun rubs her head, messes up her hair for everyone to see, ignoring Jinsol’s whine and swatting hands.

“Do what you always do; keep your eyes and ears on her. Something’s bound to come up.” 

—

Jungeun didn’t think she’d be right about that.

She doesn’t know what happened between Yerim and Yves — it was just babysitting. Even when Yerim came back with a new purple lamp, she looked happy. 

The change must’ve felt like whiplash.

“Is Eevee avoiding me, mommy?” 

Jungeun remembers frowning, crouching to brush away purple strands from Yerim’s eyes, spotted tears left unshed.

She never knows what to say whenever she asks; hates how Yerim’s the one Yves is hurting when it should’ve just been her, alone.

“I don’t know, baby.” 

It’s been two weeks since they’ve last spoken to Yves. 

Yerim still writes her letters, and she’s confirmed with every visit to the mailbox that they’ve been taken (it’s always empty the next time she goes to drop one off), but somehow they never really see her. 

Jungeun still does; when she’s at work with Jinsol beside her, watching through the cameras installed in her house. 

Situated between the hinges of a curtain’s rod, blending with the steel; high enough to get a bit of view of the living room, kitchen, and the hall leading to the front door.

“She’s been busier, lately.” 

“You mean she’s been killing a lot, lately.” Jinsol says, chips crunching between her teeth. “I thought you were making progress?”

They watch Yves sort out equipment in the living room, sliding on a holster.

“What do you mean?” 

“You know, less killing and more…” Jinsol pauses, swallowing down a mouthful, a wink thrown her way. “...family friendly.” 

Jungeun yanks the bag of chips, ignores her pout. 

“...Shut up.” 

Jinsol snickers, shoving fingers back into the bag and grabbing a handful despite Jungeun’s protests.

“Well, whatever it is, she’s been set off, somehow. She’s been calling for more jobs, like she’s purposely looking for more things to do.” Jinsol turns to her, Cheshire smile curling up her lips. “Besides the obvious.”

Jungeun slaps her shoulder, ignores the warmth seeping up her neck, spreading across her ears.

Yves goes over to her jacket, slipping her arms through the sleeves.

Vivi’s voice rings through the open door. 

“I call that progress,” she gestures with a flick of her wrist, waves in Jungeun’s direction. “You’re still here, after all.” 

Having her mortality said out loud so casually sends a shiver up her spine.

“...Thanks, I guess.”

Jungeun watches the way Yves stares at the letter Yerim had written for her that morning, how she lingers as if to engrave the words in her head.

Anger and frustration boil in her stomach.

She wants to yell at her, have her voice pierce through the screen for making Yerim sad — for never writing her back, that maybe if she did, just once, Yerim wouldn’t be coming home like her heart was always broken.

Let her know that even when Yerim feels miserable, she still goes out of her way to write another letter, hopeful that there’ll be one day where she can just see her friend, again.

Ignoring her is one thing; she can handle a broken heart — she’s lived through high school and college learning how, but ignoring Yerim too? 

No, she doesn’t get to do that.

But no matter how much she wants to teach Yves a lesson, she can’t. Because isn’t this for the better? 

Yerim won’t feel as hurt anymore when it’s time to put Yves away.

She watches Yves tuck the letter back into the envelope, setting it neatly on the countertop before leaving.

This is for the better.

—

“Are you sure you’ll be fine?” Jungeun says as she rummages through her purse: 

House keys, check. Cellphone, check. Wallet, check.

Jiwoo scoffs, waves her hand. 

“Please, I know I don’t have a kid of my own, but I know at least a thing or two about taking care of one.” Jiwoo pats Yerim’s head, grinning. “So don’t worry about us.” 

“Yeah, mommy. Don’t worry about us!”

Jungeun jumps at the sound of honking, giving Yerim and Jiwoo one last hug before looping the strap of her purse over her shoulder. 

“All right, I’ll be back soon. Call me if you need anything.” 

Jiwoo laughs, shoving her forward. 

“Okay, okay. Now go have fun!” 

So she does just that, carpooling with colleagues from her boring nine-to-five office job because she’s getting promoted and they all wanted to celebrate. 

She has to admit though; she’s surprised, and a little impressed. She didn’t think Vivi would bother with giving her a better position at a job that’s just for show — it’s kind of sweet. 

She appreciates it.

The bar is filled with smoky dim lights and drunkards jumping around on the dance floor. 

She wouldn’t go so far as to be _that_ relaxed, but she’d like to be loose enough to drown the persistent worries that haunt her even in her sleep. 

Jungeun knows there’s no point denying the obvious — upset that Yves hasn’t reached out to her in weeks, with Yerim running on little hope every morning she knocks on her door and gets no answer. 

It’s stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, _stupid._ And yet she still can’t help but feel for more than what she’s supposed to for the woman next door.

So she lets herself get distracted by drinks that people offer her in the name of celebration, losing count several minutes later and wondering if it’s okay that her head is already spinning.

But it doesn’t erase the thoughts of Yves like she’d hoped.

Her phone lighting up and jittering on the counter takes Jungeun’s eyes away from another drink.

“...Hello?” Her voice comes out groggy, sluggish, like she has no sense of control anymore.

_“What the hell are you doing, Jungeun?!”_

Weird. She never thought she’d ever hear Vivi sound like that. Panicked, like she’s high-strung on nerves and cold-sweat jitters. 

Jungeun fumbles to hold the phone closer, attempts to pay attention to the sound of her boss’ voice instead of the pounding bass line to a bad song.

“Just—“ she groans, slumping forward, head pounding with a headache. “— the work party. Obviously. Which, by the way, I should thank you for.”

_“There is no work party, Jungeun!”_

Jungeun frowns, pulls away to blink hard at the screen, squinting. No work party? So does that mean no promotion? 

“Wait,” she hiccups, gripping the counter; the room’s spinning. “What do you mean there’s no—“ 

Another glass slides over to her. The bartender shrugs when she stares up at him in confusion, nodding his head towards her left.

“You can thank the lady over there,” 

Jungeun turns her head, spots a woman with short hair, medium-length — but it’s not Yves.

There’s a glint in her eyes, like she knows too much.

Jungeun watches her slide onto the stool next to her.

“Hello, Jungeun.” 

She’s sober enough to know she never said her name. 

_“Hello?! Jungeun? Jungeun—!“_

Jungeun ends the call.

“They sounded awfully worried,” the woman points at her phone, nods her head. “Why didn’t you answer that?”

She’d rather not have Vivi let anything slip for the stranger to hear. Besides, she needs to pay attention; there’s something off about this woman. And unnerving.

“...Who are you?” 

“Haseul,” she’s tracing a finger along the rim of her cup, “just figured you’d like a free drink, or two. You looked like you needed one.”

Jungeun slides it to the side. “I don’t.” 

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Haseul leans in a little closer, but not enough to feel her breathe. “I’m not the one hired to do the dirty work, but I’m sure you know who is.” 

Jungeun stiffens. 

“What do you want?”

“Just to get to know you, see what’s so different this time.” It’s ambiguous and makes Jungeun’s head spin with questions— besides the drinks she’s already had. “Also, to let you and your friends know that you’re all doing a horrible job of playing catch. Tell me, how did your friends like the bird pictures?” 

She grips the counter, steadies the room spinning in her head. 

“...You set this up,” 

Haseul smiles. 

“I told you, I want to get to know you.” She raises a hand, urges Jungeun not to throw a punch — though Jungeun’s seconds away from doing just that. “And so far, I’m not all that impressed.”

Jungeun grits her teeth, hates how dizzying she’s gotten — she knows she doesn’t get like this when she drinks. 

Haseul takes a sip from her cup.

“At least you catch on quick,” 

“So _you’re_ her partner,” 

“Her Handler, actually. But yes, I guess you could say I am.” Haseul swirls the glass, watches the ice cubes bump against the walls. _Clink_. “Every contract goes through me, so imagine my surprise when yours came in.” 

Jungeun’s gaze hardens. She wonders if Haseul can hear how shallow her breaths have gotten over the obnoxious music she doesn’t recognize.

“It was odd how someone wanted a person like you dead. So normal and bland — and unimportant.” Haseul turns to her, “They should’ve made your profile a little more colourful. Sprinkle a bit of crime, misfortune, and a bad track record, and maybe then I wouldn’t have questioned it enough to do some digging. An expensive price tag on your head doesn’t mean ignoring the obvious.”

Her heart thrums in her ears, racing, fear crawling up her chest — she _knows._

Jungeun bites her lip.

— does Yves know too?

Is that why she’s been so adamant in avoiding them?

“Don’t worry, she doesn’t.” The chair creaks beside her, watching Haseul stand, speaks like she knows the thoughts rampaging in her head. “It’d be interesting to see what would happen if she did, though. Wouldn’t you agree?” 

Jungeun’s eyes follow her out, feels her heart sink, too many thoughts rolling around to assemble any of it.

God, she needs to drink this all away.

—

“Shouldn’t you be heading home?” 

Jungeun catches herself nod, heart jumping at a voice she hears even in her sleep. 

She doesn’t know. Probably. Maybe. If she could find her co-worker and hitch a ride with her again. But she hasn’t thought about that. 

Her mind’s been preoccupied with a lot. Fleeting, most times. But always there. 

Images of Yves disappear like a lightbulb flickering on and off — as if she hasn’t already been plaguing her thoughts twenty-four seven.

But right now, she’s in front of her. All flesh and bones and just— _here_. As if she’s gotten tired of living in her head.

Her avoidance has stripped Jungeun down to a shameful need to be closer— closer and closer and _closer._

Now if she could just make Yves stay.

“...I-I can’t believe you’re actually here…”

So she touches her every chance she gets, reaches for someone she shouldn’t want and certainly can’t have, latches onto every hitched breath Yves takes when she gets too close. 

There are many things she wants to say: scream at her, tell her she’s hurt Yerim one too many times, that she’s made them come to enjoy her presence, and all the moments they’ve shared together.

“We’re leaving. Now.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol in her system that’s jostling all reason out the window, the urgency in Yves’ voice dismissed in favour of leaning in, catch a speck of Yves’ warmth — perhaps even a little taste.

“But I like this…” Jungeun nestles against the space between jaw and shoulder, mesmerized at the way Yves’ neck moves when she swallows. “...Just stay like this.”

She feels calloused hands grasp her face. 

“We have to go.” Jungeun blinks, vision blurry, groaning. “Stay with me. Okay?”

Huh. That sounds easy. Where else would she rather be?

Jungeun slumps against her, craves the warmth emitting from Yves’ skin.

“...Okay…”

Her vision comes and goes, feels Yves carry her elsewhere, her feet dragging along to each hurried step. 

She doesn’t know where they’re going, and that should’ve been enough cause to panic, trigger a fight-or-flight response, but Jungeun doesn’t feel anything else except safe. 

Her body slumps on something cold, feels Yves cover her with something warm; it smells of her, comforting enough to make her head stop spinning, focus on that one scent.

Her voice sounds like a lullaby.

“Just sleep, I’ll be right back.” 

Jungeun doesn’t resist. 

—

Waking up to Jiwoo’s face is a nightmare.

Or maybe it’s because she has a pounding headache and she wants nothing more than to punch the pain away — with Jiwoo being the closest thing for her fist to hit. 

“Woah, woah, hey, is that how you treat your best friend?” Jiwoo chuckles, standing upright, pressing down her fist and gesturing to her nightstand. “Take those for the headache. And drink that water. You look like hell.” 

Jungeun groans. “...Thanks,” 

She shifts, sheets rustling beneath her, but there’s a scent she recognizes too well — and one that shouldn’t be in her bed.

Fingers lift a blazer she knows she doesn’t own.

“You held onto it for dear life; we figured it’d be best to just leave it with you.” Jiwoo’s voice ring into her ears, bounces off the walls as if her words weren’t already ricocheting between her ribs. “Your poor neighbor looked so lost without it.” 

Jungeun feels her neck grow hot, her ears ablaze.

“...Oh.” 

Jiwoo snickers, nudges her shoulder like she’s excited to share a secret.

“What, that’s it? Come on, you wouldn’t be blushing if there was really nothing.” She plops onto the bed, feels the mattress sink under her weight. “She’s cute, I know that much. I also know you have eyes.” 

Jungeun groans, lays back into the comfort of her pillows — ignores the prickling want in her fingers to hold Yves’ jacket tighter. 

She pushes it away, far enough that she’d have to lean over to grip it, swift like it burns to touch.

If Jiwoo noticed, she doesn’t mention it.

“It’s really nothing, Jiwoo.”

“I didn’t know ‘nothing’ gets you special treatment,” Jiwoo snorts, brushes her hair back. “Getting carried up the stairs — come on, you know that takes a lot of effort.” 

Jungeun frowns.

“She carried me?” 

“She went all the way to find you and take you home,” Jiwoo says, gesturing wildly. “That’s definitely not ‘nothing’.” 

“How did she—“ Jungeun pauses, sitting up. “— how did she even know? Where I was? Just— everything?” 

Because last time she checked, all she’d get from Yves is a closed door no matter how many times she and Yerim knocked.

“Yerim asked her,” Jiwoo shrugged, a proud smile on her lips. “She was really worried about you. They both were. I mean, I was too, but,” she chuckles, patting Jungeun’s knee. “I’m used to you causing trouble.” 

Jungeun slaps her hand away, ignores Jiwoo’s raucous giggles and stares at the doorway. 

Jiwoo nudges her leg. 

“Go let Yerim know you’re okay. I think she’d really appreciate it.” 

—

Yves doesn’t answer the door, seemingly keen on being the ghost she’s been the past few weeks; as if last night never happened.

Jungeun doesn’t care, though. She wants to see her. And so does Yerim. 

She’ll make it happen, one way or another. 

_“Good morning to you too, Haseul.”_

After work.

Jungeun stiffens at the name, recognizes it from all the fog and spinning lights still left in her head, a pulsing headache demanding attention.

Yves’ on the bed, phone to her ear, staring mindlessly at the ceiling. 

“You look like you saw a ghost,” Jinsol says, nudging her elbow. “You’re all stiff. What’s up?” 

Vivi had fussed over her the moment she walked into the office, scolded her for the scare — that she was lucky Yves went to find her and not utilize it for what it was— an opportunity.

She didn’t know her team had followed her, too. That they kept their distance because Yves showed up, afraid to blow their cover.

Jungeun didn’t have the heart to tell them it was already too late.

She could tell they didn’t know anything else — that they don’t know she had met the woman on the other side of Yves’ call.

_“Why Jungeun?”_

Her voice is clear, so sure — the way her name rolls off her tongue makes Jungeun’s chest tighten.

“Stop shooting heart eyes at the screen,” Jinsol bumps her arm again, “or else I’m gluing you to it.” 

Jungeun scowls, nudges her back. God, Jinsol’s annoying — and not at all subtle about her wiggling eyebrows. 

It’s not a secret that Yves feels something for her. Everyone on her team would tease her about it, make light jabs about how she managed to reel in a killer by being boring. 

She wonders if they’d still make kissing faces and jokes about matching couple shirts if they knew it wasn’t unrequited.

She watches Yves hang up, throw her phone across the bed, squeezing her eyes shut with her fingers as if it’d help erase whatever’s taking up her vision.

_“Damn it,”_ Yves slumps further into the bed, rests an arm over her eyes, a heavy sigh leaving her throat. _“Why am I like this?”_

Jungeun turns away, distracts herself with pictures on the wall of cases they’ve yet to solve, attempts to ease the nervous jitters tumbling in her stomach. 

That’s a question she’d like to have answered for herself, too.

—

Someone’s watching them. 

At first she thought she was just being paranoid, but Jungeun learned throughout the years that it could save a life. 

On several occasions she’d spot a silhouette trailing after her: to work, to the cafe, tending the garden — but never do more than look. 

She’s not the only one who noticed.

“Will you be okay?” Yerim looks worried. 

Jungeun rubs her thumb across Yerim’s cheek, erases dirt and soil off her skin, tucking a fallen flower in Yerim’s hair.

“Of course,” She knows Yerim’s not convinced, but she hopes her faux confidence is enough to quell Yerim from doing anything rash. “Besides, if anything happens, you’ll always have Jiwoo. Or Vivi.” 

Yerim frowns. “But I don’t want anyone else.”

“Not even Jinsol? You called her ‘mama’.” 

“Because we were pretending,” her smile is small and shy, “but I’m not pretending with you.” 

Yerim fidgets, gaze downwards to stare at her shoes. She looks embarrassed with her admission, but Jungeun’s heart swells at the truth, crouching to smother Yerim in a hug she’s gotten used to giving. 

“I won’t let anything happen,” Jungeun says, feeling Yerim’s hands grip the back of her jacket. “I promise.” 

—

Nothing on screen comes close to seeing the real thing. 

It feels too long since she’s last seen Yves. 

Last night doesn’t count. She’d much rather pretend that evening doesn’t exist, ignore all the Pandora boxes she’d opened without inhibitions, and delude herself into thinking this is the first time she’s seen her, since. 

Streetlights don’t do her justice.

“Hey!” She spots Yerim already there, standing next to Yves like it’s natural, notes a letter in her hand. “Um, here. I had it dry cleaned for you.”

Yves looks hesitant, the way her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, shy and muted. 

“You didn’t have to,”

_But I wanted to,_ Jungeun doesn’t say.

She shakes her head, scuffs the bottom of her shoe, wonders how much of the truth she should tell Yves. 

“I don’t remember much from last night, but Jiwoo and Yerim told me you brought me home.” She thinks about how vivid the confrontation was with Haseul, her words haunting like a nightmare come true. “So, thanks. I’m sorry I’ve been such a handful.” 

She searches for any sign that Yves knows more, but there’s nothing to find except the look Jungeun’s gotten used to receiving, recognizes it instantly because she’s seen it too often in the mirror at home — longing. 

Yves turns away like it hurts to look any longer.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Jungeun feels a smile crawl across her lips. Assassins should know how to lie. Has Yves always been this easy to read?

“Eevee! Will you come by Saturday? We’re having a party!” 

“A party?” 

Jungeun laughs. There’s no way Yves will say no to this; not when it comes to Yerim. 

“It’s her birthday on Saturday,” Jungeun reaches out, ruffles purple hair. “Go on. Tell her how old you’re going to be.”

She watches the emotions colour Yves’ eyes, that softness she seems to reserve for Yerim returning. 

“Will you be there?”

Yerim’s voice is sweet and irresistible. It’s no surprise when Yves says yes.

Jungeun and Yerim high-five before Yerim’s lunging for a hug Yves isn’t prepared for — but seems to appreciate all the same.

—

Jungeun was hoping that shopping together to find Yerim a gift would help distract Yves from whatever was plaguing her mind.

“Yves?”

It doesn’t. 

Yves’ skin is soft beneath her fingers, urging her to turn, look her way instead of the images that keep Yves’ eyes off her. 

“Yes?”

Courage comes easier, now. Makes her limbs move on their own, reach out to touch her — ease the craving of wanting to feel her skin. 

“Is something bothering you?” Jungeun says, ignores the itch to lean up closer.

It’s odd, the way she doesn’t seem to fear the consequences of touching Yves like this; almost as if she doesn’t care. And maybe she really doesn’t. 

Or maybe she’s reassured by the fact that Yves hangs her feelings across her eyes, makes it easy for Jungeun to see she’s not the only one who feels this way. 

Jungeun just never thought she’d be the type of person to choose her heart over her head— throw caution out the window, keep her team in the dark.

She wonders if Yves could ever bring herself to decide.

When Yves turns, lips kissing the palm of her hand, Jungeun didn’t think she’d actually get to see her make the same choice. 

“Y-Yves?”

“Sooyoung,” Yves — _Sooyoung_ , says, voice lowered to a whisper, as if breathless. “You can call me Sooyoung.” 

Hearing a new name; her _actual_ name is all the more frightening. It makes this real, solidifying what Jungeun’s been afraid of acknowledging; that whatever this is, it could happen. 

She just has to let it _happen_. 

Jungeun wishes she never said her real name— wishes she never gave the key to her life. She hates that Sooyoung trusts her enough to keep such a secret.

For a killer, Sooyoung sure likes to follow her heart. 

Jungeun leans up, presses her lips against the corner of her mouth, plays with the name _“Sooyoung,”_ on her tongue; she hopes Sooyoung can feel her promise to keep it close.

But with the way Sooyoung seals the gap between their breaths, tasting her smile, Jungeun laughs at how quickly she doesn’t need that hope anymore.

She goes home holding her hand until they’re at her doorstep, letting go in exchange for another one of Sooyoung’s kisses that lingers long after she’s already gone.

—

It’s Yerim’s birthday today.

She gets the day off to help set up the party, buy decorations and a cake Yerim chooses for herself because she wants to assist in designing it. 

It’s always fun to see Yerim so happy, zipping around the house and thinking of all the games she could play with her friends, sprawling them across the carpet to rank them out of ten based off of fun factor.

“Relax, Yerim. You’ve got time,” 

“But there’s just so many games to play! I don’t know which one we should play first!” 

Jungeun laughs, resting on the couch to watch Yerim solve her biggest conundrum, allows her body to relax after having everything finally ready. 

But her limbs stay tense even when the party has already started, offering curt smiles and short responses to guests she doesn’t care about because the one person she wants isn’t here.

Thankfully Yerim’s surrounded by kids who enjoy her company and games that offer plenty of distractions to not notice she’s still missing one more person on her guest list.

Jungeun scrolls through her contact list, looks for a name that’s been tattooed into her head, and wonders if she should call or text her instead. 

Her phone rings before she could decide, a private number displayed on the screen.

Jungeun taps it open. 

“Hello?”

_“It’s nice to hear from you again, Jungeun.”_

A chill slithers through her spine, jolts her to a stand, find a place where it’s quietest.

The sound of laughing children and Jenga blocks thudding the carpet floor gets muffled behind her bedroom door. 

“...What do you want?” 

_“Your cooperation,”_

Jungeun grits her teeth. “And why would I do that?” 

Out of all the things she could say, Jungeun isn’t prepared for the one Haseul settles for.

_“Because Yves won’t be attending your little party if you don’t.”_

Haseul’s voice is quiet, calculative— and menacing. 

Jungeun paces around her room, worry settling into her head.

Quiet anger seeps behind her lips.

“...Where is she?”

Jungeun’s furious at a lot of things: at Haseul’s callousness, Sooyoung’s questionable safety— she’s always two steps behind. 

_“I’ll tell you once you get there,”_ Haseul’s firm, but there’s a hint of concern underlying her voice. _“And no, I’m not asking.”_

By the time Jungeun’s rushing out the door in clothes she’s ordered to wear, Jiwoo’s chasing after her.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Her hand is warm around her wrist, “I mean, I’ll handle things here, but Jungeun…” 

Jungeun grips Jiwoo’s hand, squeezing gently. 

“I’ll be fine,” 

“This isn’t one of your missions, is it?” Jiwoo frowns, brows furrowed. “I thought you were done with all that?” 

Jungeun eases the fingers around her skin, musters up a smile before turning away to pull open her car door. 

“Tell Yerim I’ll be right back,” she’s halfway in, gazes up at eyes that never seem to stop worrying about her. “I’ll be fine, Jiwoo. So stop pouting, okay?” 

Jiwoo chuckles. “Fine. Just — be careful.” 

Jungeun nods.

“Always.” 

—

Haseul’s instructions had been ambiguous at best.

The only specifics given were the instructions on what colour to wear and the room number (why her clothes even mattered was beyond her— but at least she could still hide away a gun on her leg). 

There’s a nagging thought knocking at the back of her head that this is all a set up — an elaborate plot to get her exactly where Haseul wants her to be, get rid of her once and for all. 

But she tends to run on slivers of hope — take a chance that it might be the truth. Just in case. 

For Sooyoung.

When she finds the door, it opens to an oval table filled with men and women she doesn’t recognize donned in similar formal attire, as if dressed to impress. 

“Hi, I’m…” Jungeun settles into the only empty seat and pauses, considers faking a name, but the way they look at her feels like they’d know the instant she lies. “...I’m Jungeun.” 

They’re polite enough. Makes small talk and light conversations about the weather — but none of it helps ease the discomfort plaguing Jungeun’s skin. 

It feels plastic — like they all have something to hide.

What’s the point of this? Why is she here? And what are they all waiting for?

“Looks like it’s up to us,” a woman says, her gaze locked with a man across from her.

He glances at his wristwatch, a sigh escaping his lips. 

“Looks like it.” 

Jungeun can tell there’s another conversation happening that she’s not a part of, simmering beneath the surface, peeking out between his lopsided smile and the woman’s amused eyes.

It’s not until he stands and raises his hand that Jungeun realizes she’s truly been set up. _Again._

It’s been awhile since she last faced the barrel of a loaded gun. 

There’s no time to react, reach for her own hidden on the side of her leg, frozen at the sight of his finger curling to squeeze the trigger.

She thinks of Yerim and Sooyoung and— 

_Bang._

Her saviour comes in the form of a bullet tearing through his head, blood splattering like a bomb had gone off.

Jungeun recognizes a second chance when she sees one.

She shoots before the assassin across the room can lift her hand, watches her drop before Jungeun twists around, makes a dash for the door just as another bullet zooms through the shattered window, bursting open another hitman’s head. 

There’s a nagging suspicion bubbling in her mind of who her saving grace may be.

Jungeun skids around the corner, misses the bullets that crash against the wall instead of her open back.

Her phone rings loud and clear — no doubt giving her away.

“Damn it,” 

She stumbles to open her purse, hurrying to shut it off, answers as soon as she sees Sooyoung’s name.

_“Jungeun! Are you okay?! Are you hurt?!”_

Jungeun ditches her heels for speed and stability, charging for the staircase. The fact that Sooyoung’s even aware at all almost confirms it – she must’ve been the one who took that shot first.

“Y-Yeah, no, I’m—“ 

She yelps at a bullet grazing her shoulder, hears rapid footsteps inching closer, the thunder of each step bouncing against the walls.

Jungeun tries not to stumble off the stairs, taking aim and firing whenever she can spare a glance.

_“I’m coming, just hold o—!“_

Her phone is shot out of her hand, drops down the flight of stairs she still has to get through, hears the crash echo into her ears.

Jungeun has no time to think when another shot is fired, the bullet grazing her cheek, feels warmth bleed down her skin. 

She doesn’t know why she’s seeing flashes of Yerim and Sooyoung, memories flitting through her mind’s eye — as if to remind her of what she could lose.

_(“Bye mommy! I love you!”)_

_(“Sooyoung. You can call me Sooyoung.”)_

Jungeun pushes through double doors, gravel and cement poking beneath her feet, attempts to catch a second to just _breathe_ — 

The sound of footsteps has gotten louder.

She curses, forces her legs to move despite how much they ache, lungs burning for oxygen. She needs to get away and just _run._

Run. 

Run _._

_Run._

When her mind numbs, focuses on the most basic of instincts, with survival as the only objective, Jungeun thinks about how this all started.

It’s almost funny; she started this knowing there wasn’t much to lose. 

But now there’s too much.

_(“As soon as this is all over, we’ll be a real family, okay? I promise.”)_

She remembers the way Yerim giggled, how she sealed their vow with a pinky finger and a smile. 

_(“I thought we already are?”)_

Jungeun pushes forward. She can’t die. Not yet. 

She still has a promise to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I lied. This story will have 3 chapters in total, not 2. This update got much longer than expected. But at least that gave me a chance to expand on Jungeun and Yerim as characters a little more. They were worth 20,087 words. I'm still reeling from it. 
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed this update. Until next time.


	3. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Squeezing the trigger has never felt this easy, almost liberating — the way it quells the tremor in Yves’ chest, squashes down the fear lodged in her stomach for a woman she’s learned to care too much about.

One down. 

That’s all it takes to set things in motion, spare Jungeun another moment of life. 

Two. 

Squeezing the trigger has never felt this easy, almost liberating — the way it quells the tremor in Yves’ chest, squashes down the fear lodged in her stomach for a woman she’s learned to care too much about.

Three.

It’s all a blur of red, shifting to the next target, whoever dares to try for Jungeun’s head eliminated with a single pull of her finger; recognizes that she’s shooting one of her own — but it doesn’t matter. 

No one else matters except Jungeun.

_“Guess we’re going with plan B.”_ Haseul doesn’t sound surprised, her voice ringing back into her ears now that the panic’s subsided. 

Yves clicks her tongue. 

Four bodies have been left behind out of eight; one of them wears Jungeun’s bullet. 

Why Jungeun has a gun in the first place is something Yves’ afraid of figuring out. 

It doesn’t help that she had no time to ask before the line had cut — shots firing being the last thing she heard.

“What happened to plan A?” 

_“You didn’t kill her,”_

Yves stays quiet. 

Haseul’s chuckling, the sound more resigned than she’s used to, like she was expecting this.

_"Disconnect again, and I'm not telling you the fastest route to get to her."_

Yves grits her teeth, readjusts her grip on her rifle. Her feet itch to move; all she can think about is finding Jungeun and keeping her safe. 

"Talk." 

_"She's not the only one with enemies coming after her."_ There's movement before Haseul's voice lowers to a whisper. _"In two minutes, a team will burst through those doors and eliminate you. You’ve gone AWOL the moment you didn’t take the shot.”_

Yves ditches her sniper rifle for her pistol, twisting on the suppressor. 

“But I did,”

It’s odd how her nerves have disappeared, replaced with a calculative calm, mind sketching out the next several steps to take.

Haseul laughs. _“Obviously.”_

She scours for another way down.

"Any building I can jump to?" 

_"Too predictable. They know you're capable; there’s more than one team deployed after you."_ Haseul says, the sound of movement crackling through Yves' ears. _"Think of something you wouldn't do."_

A map outlines itself in her head, thinks of every possibility she could take, juggling the risks associated with each of them. 

Yves hopes her legs can handle the fall. 

"The dumpster better be full," 

_"Going dirty? Never thought I'd see—or hear, the day, you clean freak."_

Yves grunts, braces the edge of the roof and stares at the giant box of filth. Well. It’s not too bad; just a bunch of black garbage bags sitting around. 

God, she'd rather hold Choerry's pet cockroach than jump into something disgusting; she could feel her stomach churn at the thought of it. 

But the phantom image of Jungeun's fearful eyes that split second she realized what was about to happen, makes Yves swallow whatever's trying to leap out of her throat.

"Just tell me where to go after this." 

_"You better make it out alive, then."_

Yves steels her fingers, inhaling as much air as she could before she holds it in, and jumps. 

She braces for impact. 

Her breath gets knocked out of her chest, shock shooting through her legs but it's not as painful as it could've been if the dumpster had been empty. 

Yves never thought she'd be grateful for plenty of garbage. 

"All right, talk to me." 

She leaps over the edges, crouching against the metal wall. 

_"You'll need a new car. They've already rigged yours in case you've escaped, so go down 34th and take a right where the cigarette billboard ad is."_ Paper shuffles in her ears. _"It's the closest point you'll get to reach Jungeun without needing to worry about too much commotion."_

Yves peers around the corner, breaking into a sprint when the streets end up empty. 

“Why are you helping me?” 

_“Because I’m your Handler.”_ Haseul pauses, _“I needed to hear it for myself whether you’d take the shot. If you did, then great. Life goes on as usual. But if you didn’t, well, then at least I’ve done my part.”_

“Which is?” 

_“Keeping you alive.”_ The line goes quiet for a moment, eerily still that Yves almost believes the call was dropped if not for the lack of dial tone. _“They’ll be looking for you, and not just for tonight.”_

Her warning is loud and clear. This chase won’t end until she’s dead — she knows that. 

“I know,” 

_“Olivia will probably be coming for your head, if you manage to get out of this; survive for the long haul.”_ Haseul sighs, laughs a little. _“She’ll be relieved she’s no longer second place; likely even jump at the opportunity to make sure she gets that promotion, properly.”_

Yves doesn’t doubt that. Hyejoo’s always been blunt about taking her place. 

“I’m not worried,” she turns a corner, ducks behind a parked truck to avoid a car strolling by. “I’m used to her always chasing after me.” 

Haseul snickers. 

_“Working with Olivia Hye has its perks,”_ she stops, the sound of a pen clicking through, _“and before you ask, yes, I’m not just your Handler.”_

“Since when?” 

_“A few months ago. She specifically requested to have me even though she’s been told countless times that I’m yours.”_ Haseul chuckles, seemingly amused by her own words. _“She was persistent. I figured I could juggle one more troublemaker.”_

“And how’s that going?” 

_“She has a lot to say about you,”_ Haseul’s scribbling something, hearing the scratching scrawl of pen against paper. _“Can’t go a day without cursing your name.”_

Yves snorts, moving forward. “You know what they say; there’s a fine line between love and hate.” 

_“Of course you’d say that.”_

“Hyejoo’s a good kid,” Yves says, slipping behind a dumpster when another car turns in. “Despite the obsession and killer intent.” 

_“Mind telling me why?”_

She isn’t sure she should say. It’s old news. 

“I left her alive when I killed her parents during the infiltration at Providence.” Yves peeks to find the car several meters away, “They were two of the three moles that were going to sell the names of all active ICA agents to National Intelligence. The Board had me eliminate them before they could.” She pauses, “Hyejoo said she wished I had finished the job and left her to burn, too.” 

_“Why didn’t you?”_

“Her name wasn’t part of the list.” 

Haseul hums, solemn. _“Now you’re part of hers,”_

Life seems to enjoy pulling strings like that; weave and tangle lines until it all comes full circle. 

Maybe it’s meant to be. 

“Well, look on the bright side; I’m constantly on someone’s mind.”

Haseul’s laugh is a mix of solemn amusement and incredulity. She’s probably not too keen at the thought of having someone so dedicated in trying to kill her. 

Yves’ about to break into another sprint when she hears the rumble of tires, crouches out of sight to find the car from before, reversing. 

It stops, four people exiting the vehicle, all in black suits and arms filled with artillery. 

“Search the area!” A woman says, directs one to follow her, the other two splitting towards separate alleyways. 

Don’t they know by now that they shouldn’t be this eager to lose so many? 

_“I hope you don’t drag this out, Sooyoung. There will be more coming.”_ Haseul says, always the voice of reason.

Yves hums, making sure her leather gloves sit snug around her hands, picking up a piece of gravel to lob over a car, send them in the opposite direction. 

She creeps up behind the closest hitman, flipping open her knife. In one swift motion, she grabs his face and jabs the blade into his neck. 

Yves listens to the way he chokes on his blood, muffled and soundless against her leather hand, lowering his body slowly, feels him struggle in her grip until he no longer is. 

She plucks a coin out of her pocket, tosses it in another direction, leads the remaining three down a narrow space filled with parked cars and neon signs. 

The fact that they’re still getting fooled by the same method confirms what she already knows — poor rookies. 

It’s easy to discern one of them is already teetering on the edge, sees the way his arms tremble to hold his rifle, grip unsteady that there’s no way he’d hit his mark. 

Yves slings another coin through the rear window of a beige Subaru, setting off an alarm. 

The blaring sound must’ve spooked him enough to pull the trigger, bullets piercing in rapid succession, battering the vehicle in holes and hitting nothing but metal. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Shouts the woman, distracted with halting the man with nerves for fingers. 

The two don’t notice another member is gone, Yves’ black leather hand already tight against his mouth and nose, knife lodged in his throat — meeting his end the same way his teammate did. 

Yves makes sure he’s out of sight by the time the shots stop ringing. 

The woman notices first. “Wait, where’s—“ 

Her sentence ends with a bullet to her forehead, dropping hard against cold pavement. 

The hitman with nervous jitters drops his gun. 

“Don’t kill me! Please!” 

Yves knows better than to show mercy. She spares him a few words of comfort.

“I’ll make it quick.” 

He doesn’t get to stutter a protest before Yves watches him fall, hears him drop against asphalt — _thud,_ red seeping from the hole on his forehead, disregarding him entirely in favour of searching for the car keys in the woman’s pockets. 

_“Cold,”_ Haseul’s input isn’t needed, but it’s one that reminds Yves how vastly different her life is compared to most. _“I thought you would have gotten soft, all things considered.”_

Yves heads back to their car, starts the ignition and shifts gears towards Jungeun. 

Haseul should know by now that her mercy is reserved for a select few. 

“You knew, didn’t you. That Jungeun wasn’t what she seemed.” Yves says, notes how quiet the line gets. “That’s why you set her up. You set us _both_ up.”

_“I’m not hearing a question,”_

Always a smart ass.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

_“It took a bit of time to figure out who the shadow client was that put a hit on Jungeun, so I was too busy thinking about what to do next as soon as I found out it was the government to bother updating you.”_ She sighs, _“Besides, the thought of having you wallow and making us stay for another few weeks? Not a chance,”_ a pause, _“You’re awfully predictable, Sooyoung.”_

Yves frowns. That doesn’t make sense. 

“But this is the first time I’ve—“ 

_“What, followed your heart?”_ Silence looms over them, as if on purpose, like Haseul wants to make sure it sinks in. _“You’re much softer than you think.”_

She wonders if she should feel offended. 

Haseul laughs. It’s wistful, almost as if she’s still trying to get used to it.

_“You respect your Handler, for one.”_

Oh.

Haseul’s polite enough to not acknowledge her mute tongue. 

_“It’s why I’m a little disappointed,”_ Yves imagines how Haseul always lets the words bounce in her mind in search of the right ones. _“Not that I’m surprised. Still. I was hoping you’d choose differently. Now I’ll have to be stuck with Olivia Hye.”_

Yves’ not used to hearing Haseul sound like this; sad, resigned, and a little bittersweet. 

“...I’m still here,” 

Another laugh. Brighter, this time. 

_“...Yeah.”_ Haseul clears her throat, as if to clear out the embarrassment on her tongue. Yves can still hear her smile. _“Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”_

—

Her feet aren't made to meet tiny bits of gravel and pieces of pavement. 

Jungeun ignores the aches, feels them prick at her skin, leaving spaces of it open. Pain shoots up her legs with every harsh landing. 

Maybe she shouldn’t have ditched the heels.

But it’s nothing compared to the feeling of a bullet piercing her shoulder. 

_Lucky shot._

She grits her teeth, clutching where red continues to flow beneath her skin; hopefully the blood seeping between her fingers don’t spill too fast — give herself enough time to make it home. 

Jungeun considers going to her car, but as soon as she turns a corner, there’s already a few of the hitmen lingering near it. Likely called in backup. 

Her back presses against brick walls, strains to hear them, peeking carefully. 

“...Of course they only notice now that she’s gone AWOL,” a man says, crossing his arms. “This contract should’ve been done weeks ago.”

“It doesn’t matter,” a woman brushes her hair back, blonde cascading over her shoulder. “Let's just get this over with. I have a flight to catch.”

Jungeun watches them plant something beneath her car; she can’t make out what it is, but she’s seen this type of scenario often enough to know it’s likely an explosive. 

She turns, looks for another way out.

Jungeun unlatches the magazine of her pistol, counts the number of rounds she has left: _four_ , before shoving it back in. 

She still has a spare clipped to her leg, but with her lack of protection — a bright dress keeping her safe from nothing and attracting too much attention, Jungeun would rather avoid facing any sort of bullets head-on, _again_ , if she could.

But with the growing number of ICA agents in search of her, and a trail of breadcrumbs dripping from her shoulder, there’s little chance she could outrun them. 

Jungeun turns a corner, finds a string of lanterns and orange lights illuminating several blocks of the exchange district. 

Gaggles of people flutter about, exploring the festivities — from vintage attire and various food vendors, to gold trinkets and silver knickknacks, chatter between friends and families serving as background noise.

It’s the annual Night Market; how convenient. 

There’s no need for her to run. 

“Mommy, look! A snow globe!” 

“I know, dear. But don’t you already have one?”

Jungeun slips in between two groups with laughing children, sweeps her hand across the table for a beret and a pair of sneakers when the shopkeeper isn’t looking. 

She winces as she ties her hair into a knot, ignores the sting in her shoulder and slipping strands of auburn beneath her hat, knows her long locks would give her away if they stayed loose. 

Her feet feel comfort the moment they settle into softer cushion and not cold pavement.

She weaves through teenagers cackling over a logo on a sweater to pilfer one of her own, bites her lip as she slips her arms through the sleeves, zipping it up to her collar. 

Jungeun rips the ends of her dress so it’s short enough to hide the vibrant red beneath her brown sweater, discards pieces of the fabric into the trash bin, picking up an itinerary of tonight’s events to at least look like she cares enough to be here. 

“Do you have one in blue?”

“Unfortunately no, but perhaps you’d like to try a different colour?”

She takes a pair of circle-framed glasses off the corner of the table when the seller is preoccupied, feels it sit comfortably atop the bridge of her nose.

Jungeun slows her pace, matches everyone else’s so she can blend in — become nothing more than a mere passerby killing time.

She knows it works as soon as a hitman comes jogging up in her direction, meets his gaze for a fraction of a second before he’s swiveling to look elsewhere, still searching. 

Now if she could just keep this up long enough to make it all the way home. 

—

There’s a whirlwind in Yves’ chest, mixed up with the tremor on her lips and the nerves in her legs, that she can’t discern whether it’s out of panic or fear. 

She just knows it’s because of Jungeun.

“It’s too quiet,” 

_“Relax, Sooyoung.”_ Haseul’s trying to calm her, she knows, but it’s hard when the adrenaline is still spiking up her lungs. _“You’re breathing too hard.”_

Yves didn’t think it’d be that obvious. 

She’s trying to steady her nerves, but when she comes across the staircase where Jungeun’s phone lays broken on the floor, it’s difficult to hold in the panic that surges up her throat. 

_(“Jungeun! Are you okay?! Are you hurt?!”_

_“Y-Yeah, no, I’m—“)_

Yves remembers the jolt of fear crawling in Jungeun’s voice — a second too long that it made Yves’ mind race at the possibility that she could lose her just like _that._

She picks up the broken device, pieces of it dangling between her fingers. 

_“Sooyoung?”_

Yves looks up, stares at the several flights of stairs Jungeun had to run through to escape, sees specks of blood littering the floor.

The fact that she hasn’t bumped into Jungeun’s lifeless body yet makes hope fester in her chest. 

“She isn’t here,” Yves says, placing Jungeun’s phone down, exactly where she found it. There’s no use in keeping it when it’s not with Jungeun. “Nothing in the lobby, or even at the stairs; just her broken cellphone.” 

_“Relieved?”_

There’s no point hiding what Haseul already knows. “Yeah,” 

_“Softie.”_

Yves considers going up to the floor where it all started, but with Jungeun’s phone being at the bottom of the staircase and not where it all began, she’d just be wasting her time staring at dead ICA agents instead of looking for Jungeun.

_“Guess it’s time to head back out, then.”_

She’s about to do just that, but her head snaps towards the sound of footsteps echoing through the hall, muffled chatter squeezing into her ears. 

Haseul seems to recognize her silence, offering her the quiet she needs to focus her attention on the group of people in bulletproof jackets and raised guns.

Yves crouches behind the counter, peeks just enough to see who’s going through the entrance. 

“She has to be somewhere here,” the woman’s voice is familiar, but Yves can’t place it. “The last blip from Jungeun’s tracker was here.” 

“Are you sure?” It’s a man this time, but as soon as he comes into view, it all clicks in her head. “Looks kind of empty, to me.” 

Jinsol following in a few meters behind him confirms it. 

“I’m sure.” 

Yves watches the first group of Jungeun’s team head for the stairs, Jinsol lingering near the entrance with the man who had hit Jungeun a few months ago; recalls how she had almost broken his wrist. 

To think she’d been played well before they even had their first decent conversation; Yves doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“Jungeun’s team is here,” Yves mutters, takes one last look at Jinsol surveying the lobby before dipping towards the back of the building, dodges Jinsol’s wandering gaze. “Guess there’s no point in being a secret, anymore.” 

_“The government’s never been good at keeping them, anyway.”_ Haseul’s voice is suddenly too soft for Yves’ liking. _“...You okay?”_

The exit leads her to the back alleyway, spots more flecks of blood splattered across the cement floor, a small trail of red weaving down the streets. 

Yves follows it. 

“I’ll manage.” 

—

Jungeun reaches out a hand against the wall of an apartment building, dusty red bricks cold beneath her palm. 

Her feet hurt. It’s almost as painful as the warmth spreading across her shoulder, the red already bleeding through her sweater.

The fact that she’s starting to feel lightheaded is something she desperately tries to ignore.

She slumps down, peels off the glasses and shoes that are a little too big for her to find red splotches across the bottom. 

“Damn it,” 

Jungeun winces to scrape off bits of old and new blood, pieces of asphalt and soot peeling along with it. She shakes off whatever she can from the inside of her black Converse, too.

She didn’t think it’d be this bad, but she’d much rather deal with a little bit of red than a broken ankle she’d no doubt have if she had kept her heels on. 

When she’s cleaned up as much as she could off her skin, she takes her time slipping her shoes on, gritting teeth during little moments where it stings. 

Jungeun rests her head back, shutting her eyes and letting out a sigh of relief that she gets at least a moment to breathe. Maybe have enough time to let her feet heal so they no longer bleed.

At least then she’d have one less thing to worry about.

“You’re pretty good,” 

But of course, it never lasts. 

Jungeun thought she’d made enough distance, convinced that no one noticed.

She grips the ground beside her, feels soil and grass between her fingers, opens her eyes to find a woman in a suit much like the ones Yves often wears. 

Jungeun watches her stand in front of her, tower over her, hands to her hips, head cocked to the side, arrogance lining her smile. 

“You could’ve gotten away, you know.” She steps forward; Jungeun waits. “If you had kept up the pace, you might’ve already been home, by now.” 

Jungeun’s gaze narrows, tightens her grip, earth crushing against her skin.

The assassin crouches, a sly grin spreading across her face. “Be with your little girl— what was her name? Yerim?” 

Jungeun doesn’t like the way she says Yerim’s name, how it leaves her lips like it’s something she’s allowed to say — something she knows when she’s the furthest thing from it. 

The woman chuckles, leaning closer as if to tell a secret. 

“Guess she’ll have to get used to being alone again when I’m done with you.” 

That’s all it takes to jumpstart the gears in her limbs, flinging soil against the woman’s face, hear her yelp, watching her stumble backwards.

Jungeun springs up after her as she struggles to scrape off the dirt in her eyes, tackling her to the ground, ignores the burn in her shoulder and maneuvers so she has the woman’s arm locked in a hold— and pulls. _Hard._

The sound of bone cracking and her scream does nothing to stop Jungeun from going in for the kill, grabbing the woman’s neck, snapping it. 

The silence that follows is deafening, feeling the woman slump against her like a doll without strings. 

She’s barely gotten to stand before someone’s yelling. 

“What the hell did you _do_ to her?!” 

Jungeun scrambles up, stumbling forward just as the woman shoots, narrowly misses a bullet to her already injured shoulder as she pivots around the corner, sprints into a nearby alleyway.

The frustrated scream tailing after her is more emotional than Jungeun’s used to; she’s definitely the partner. 

“Get back here, coward!”

She hears the woman curse, grunting and huffing, no doubt angrily pushing away rolling trash cans and fences flung closed on her.

Jungeun yanks her gun out from her pocket, tries to take aim despite the gradual haze in her vision and the slight tremors quaking her hands, pulling the trigger, hears the bullets thud against brick walls and clanging trash bins. 

The pain is starting to get to her.

“Too bad you’re not a good shot,” 

The woman sounds eerily closer, the hairs on Jungeun’s neck stiffening to a stand. 

Jungeun curses as soon as she turns a corner, spots a dead end. She tries to maneuver back, only to be faced with a swinging fist. 

Jungeun doesn’t have time to duck.

But a bullet stops the assassin before her fist could meet Jungeun’s face.

Jungeun shifts, grateful for the timing, before she’s stopped, too.

Jungeun barely feels it coming; a bullet whistling past her, misses her cheek by a hair’s breadth away for the broken brick tiles beside her. 

Her feet stay rigid, but her head turns, lets reality sink in that she’s been cornered; that the shot marked her prison— not a mistake. 

Jungeun’s heart leaps to her throat at the sight of eyes she doesn’t know how to forget.

“Soo—?” 

Another shot is fired, destroys the rest of her name from leaving her lips, makes her flinch— it misses her ear _._

The gun is steady in Sooyoung’s hand, her voice firm — and conflicted.

“I should’ve known better,” Jungeun faces her fully, tries to read the look dancing across Sooyoung’s eyes. “...I should’ve known better.” 

She wonders if Sooyoung realizes that she’s thinking out loud — makes it known of the inner turmoil swirling in her gaze, in the way her fingers whiten around the hilt of her pistol. 

Jungeun ignores the doubts in her head, refuses to acknowledge the possibility that Sooyoung could hurt her — that she _will_ hurt her.

She steps forward.

Jungeun flinches, a bullet grazing her skin, can feel warmth drip from her cheek, another cut splitting open.

Sooyoung’s voice tapers to a whisper. “...I should’ve killed you a long time ago.” 

Jungeun knows there’s fear slithering up her chest, one that worms into her head — makes her think of how all it’ll take is one shot where Sooyoung chooses not to miss. 

But Jungeun has always been stubborn. 

“Sooyoung—“

Another bullet scrapes her arm, feels the skin break apart. 

The name catches in her throat, dies out like a flame that barely got to burn.

Jungeun wants to erase the regret she hears in Sooyoung’s voice. 

“...I should have never told you my name.” 

Jungeun’s closer, now. Spots how Sooyoung’s grip starts to tremble, the barrel of her suppressor shakily aimed at her forehead. 

Sooyoung’s finger is far from the trigger; it tells her everything she needs to know.

Jungeun reaches out.

The fact that Sooyoung doesn’t avoid her touch makes hope rise in her chest. 

“I should’ve been more careful,” Jungeun starts, watches the way Sooyoung eyes her movements. “I should’ve kept my distance. Maybe then I wouldn’t be stuck feeling like this was a mistake.”   
  


She ushers Sooyoung’s fingers to uncoil around the handle, have her hold her hand instead, guide them lower until all that’s left between them is the air they breathe and not the weapon Sooyoung’s been desperate to use to keep them apart. 

To think Sooyoung’s letting her do this — she’s surrendering more than just a gun, transferring command when Jungeun wants nothing to do with the pistol now in her hand. 

The way Sooyoung’s looking at her makes it feel like she’s waiting for _her_ to pull the trigger. 

“But that’s the thing about mistakes; you get to learn from them.” Jungeun continues, feels a smile tug at the corners of her lips. “You know what I’ve learned?”

Jungeun clicks the safety on, puts the gun away because she doesn’t need it— not for this, freeing her fingers so she could cradle Sooyoung’s cheek. 

She guides Sooyoung closer because _screw it_ — the only trigger she’s pulling is another chance to have her.

“You’re a mistake I want to make, over and over, again.” 

She captures Sooyoung’s lips so the words melt onto her mouth— have it linger long enough so Sooyoung can taste that she isn’t a decision Jungeun could ever regret.

She cherishes the splash of happiness on her cheeks, spreading warmth from Sooyoung’s equally eager kiss, feeling the gentleness in Sooyoung’s thumb when she swipes at the cut on her skin.

There’s nothing to hide, anymore.

It should make fear crawl up her throat, have it flood her lungs, get her to choke on the inevitability that this is it— that this is all they’ll ever be: a secret to be snuffed out at a dead-end of a back alleyway.

But Jungeun wants things to stay the way they’ve always been. And with Sooyoung tugging her closer, holding her as if she can’t bring herself to let go, either, she knows she’s not the only one.

Jungeun pulls back, eyes fluttering open to find Sooyoung leaning in again, as if to chase after more, before halting, like she finally remembers where she is. 

“...Sorry,” Sooyoung mumbles, shy and embarrassed, but it only makes Jungeun’s heart grow louder. 

Jungeun chuckles, stroking gentle lines on Sooyoung’s cheek, watching Sooyoung’s eyes flutter open. 

“We’ll talk about everything later, okay?” 

Like always, Sooyoung listens.

But before she could take another step forward, move in the direction Sooyoung turns to, her legs crumble beneath her.

“Jungeun?!” 

She collapses, feels warmth secure her close, hold her up. Her head is spinning and her vision is starting to come and go, barely making out Sooyoung’s frantic lips. 

Jungeun breathes in, tries to find the strength in her legs again, wobbling to keep herself upright. 

“It’s nothing, it’s just—“ she presses a hand against Sooyoung’s chest, attempts to show she could stand on her own. “— I’m just a little tired.”

Maybe it’s because they’re closer now, the night sky and faint moonlight providing just enough lighting for Sooyoung to notice the red seeping through her sweater, feels Sooyoung’s hand peel back the collar for a better look. 

Jungeun has no energy to protest. 

“You consider this nothing?” Sooyoung doesn’t wait for a response, bending to curl her arm behind Jungeun’s knees, the other already warm against her back. 

Jungeun flushes at the realization. “W-Wait, Sooyoung, I can walk—“ 

“Just so you can fall again?” 

“I’m not going to—“ 

Jungeun yelps, doesn’t like how easy it was for Sooyoung to sweep her off her feet _._

She’s flustered and embarrassed that she needs to depend on someone else to move, almost considers trying to fight her way out of Sooyoung’s arms to make a point, but the fear in Sooyoung’s eyes and the urgency in her steps makes all of her complaints disappear.

She holds Sooyoung’s cheek, hopes her touch is enough to soothe the wrinkles between her brows. 

“...I’ll be fine, don’t worry.” 

Like the spark that ignited their first kiss, Sooyoung turns her head, lips pressing gently against Jungeun’s palm. 

—

She never imagined she’d be stealing a car with a criminal. 

“How did you even find me?” Jungeun asks as soon as her back rests against the passenger seat, watching Sooyoung pull out onto the road. 

Being able to sit down makes the aching in her feet annoyingly present, pain throbbing beneath her skin, as if all it took was a moment of peace to remind her of it. 

It must’ve been obvious. “Where else does it hurt?” 

Jungeun chuckles, breathy, exhaustion catching up to her. She clutches her shoulder tighter.

“I’m fine,” she waves her free hand, dismissing the concern. “I’m fine, Sooyoung. I’m okay.” 

Sooyoung doesn’t seem satisfied with that, a frown painting her face. “Let’s just get to safety, first.” 

Jungeun doesn’t bother arguing with her.

She stretches her legs out, attempts to erase the kinks and relax taut muscles, slumping deeper into the cushion, a sound of relief escaping her lips. 

Jungeun appreciates the quiet, shutting her eyes to listen to the hum of the engine, the tires rolling against asphalt, the radio chirping about the weather. The adrenaline is starting to wear off in her limbs, easing the marathon in her heart. 

She doesn’t know how long she’d been out, but the moment her eyes flicker open at the sound of the engine cutting, Jungeun’s raising her head to find concern tumbling out of Sooyoung’s mouth.

“There was a trail of blood; didn’t take long to find an ICA agent when she was shouting at you.” She starts, gaze scouring over Jungeun’s figure, pausing to her shoes. “None of those are yours,” 

Jungeun laughs, turning to face Sooyoung completely, pressing her temple against the headrest. 

“...Yeah, they’re not.” 

Sooyoung frowns, looking over her shoulder, gaze flickering around the backseat before reaching out for a bottle of water that’s half empty. 

Jungeun arches a brow when she grabs the box of tissues lying on the floor, settling them on her lap before meeting her eyes. 

“We’ll start with your shoulder,” Sooyoung says, peeling off her suit jacket. “Can I?” 

Jungeun realizes what she’s truly asking when Sooyoung’s fingers tug gently at the cuff of her sweater.

She ignores the heat trickling up her ears, nodding. Jungeun tries to undo the zipper, but it gets stuck in the middle. 

Sooyoung’s hands come up immediately. 

“Here,” 

Jungeun watches her drag it down, before helping guide her arms out of the sleeves, wincing at the smallest of movements with her injured arm. 

As soon as the sweater comes off, Sooyoung takes it, folding it into a slim line before carefully tugging Jungeun’s grip from her shoulder. 

“This should be enough to buy you some time for proper treatment,” Sooyoung says, looping it around, tightening the knots until it’s almost painfully too much. “It doesn’t seem to be bleeding as much anymore. But just in case.” 

Jungeun nods, watching the minute changes in Sooyoung’s expressions. The slight crinkle between her brows, the small curl at the corner of her lips, the specks of sweat trickling down her forehead — she can’t help but try to memorize everything. 

It’s only when Sooyoung’s leaning back, creating distance between them again that Jungeun realizes how close they had been to begin with, watching the way Sooyoung’s fingers drift from her shoulder. 

Jungeun notices the pink gradually colouring her cheeks. “Sooyoung?” 

Sooyoung jolts from her seat, startled, gaze fluttering between meeting her eyes and the floor as if she can’t make up her mind on where to look. 

“...You look good,” it’s meek, awkward, and way too soft that Jungeun strains to hear her. “In that dress, I mean. All things considered.” 

Jungeun looks down, feeling her own face burn. Without the sweater to cover her up, she’s more skin than not. Her good arm instinctively reaches up to shield what it could. 

Sooyoung’s jacket dangles between her fingers. “I hope this is okay?” 

Sooyoung’s halfway over the middle panel, hands outstretched, jacket spread open for Jungeun to slip into. 

Jungeun takes her offer, leaning in, the gentle cascade of warmth blanketing her shoulders filling her with as much comfort as the relieved smile on Sooyoung’s lips. 

“Thanks,” 

Sooyoung shrugs, before redirecting her gaze lower. She points at Jungeun’s feet. 

“Now let me see,” 

Jungeun’s ears grow even warmer. “What? No, it’s okay. Seriously. I’m fine. They’re fine.” 

Sooyoung looks unimpressed. 

Jungeun tugs at the jacket, curls deeper into it, stammering. “No, really. It’s fine, Sooyoung.” 

Jungeun cringes at the thought of her feet; smeared with blood and dirt and definitely _not_ a sight for sore eyes. 

Sooyoung likely mistakens her shudder for pain, clicking her tongue. “I can help,” 

“But—” 

“Just let me,” she pauses, as if juggling the word on her tongue, “... _please_.” 

Any complaints piling up behind her mouth dissipate at Sooyoung’s whisper, ignoring the flush on her cheeks in favor of lifting her legs over the middle panel, shrinking into herself as Sooyoung carefully slips her feet out of her shoes. 

She knows there’s nothing to be embarrassed about; Sooyoung’s definitely seen worse things than this, but Jungeun can’t help feeling vulnerable, shivering when Sooyoung’s fingers slide across her ankles, heat spilling into her skin. 

Sooyoung pours a bit of water over a handful of tissues, swiping gently across her foot. 

Jungeun yelps, flinching back, ears burning hotter at Sooyoung’s apologies. 

“Sorry, did I hurt you?” 

“No, no, it’s just —” god, how does she say this without sounding like a little kid? “— it tickles…” 

The quiet laughter leaving Sooyoung’s lips makes her admission worth it. 

Silence looms over them again, but it’s comfortable and nothing like Jungeun thought it could be — safe. 

She looks out the window, distracts herself from the tender touches Sooyoung makes on her skin, recognizing the neighborhood; they’re close to home. 

“...You knew,” Sooyoung says, haltingly. “About everything.” 

Jungeun turns back, feels the air shift, more somber than the gentle quiet she was growing accustomed to. 

Sooyoung’s focus remains on scraping away imperfections on her skin. 

Guess they’re having that talk, now. “...I did.” 

“Then why?” She watches Sooyoung swallow, licking her lips, as if dry from all the secrets they’ve been keeping in. “Why are you still here? Still...” 

She doesn’t finish the rest, letting the quiet swallow it up like it was a mistake she’d rather erase; it doesn’t work.

_With me?_ Is what she never says, but Jungeun can hear it. 

Jungeun fiddles with the ends of her sleeves.

“Why won’t you kill me?” 

Because isn’t that the reason she’s still here? 

Sooyoung’s silence tells her enough. 

She shifts to Jungeun’s other foot, ripping from the box a new bundle of tissues to soak before swiping at her skin; she makes it look like this was natural to do. 

Jungeun tucks her hair back behind her ear, glances down at her lap, smooths out the wrinkles on Sooyoung’s jacket sleeves.

“Choerry knew too, didn’t she?” Sooyoung pauses, sounding nervous at the truth, as if she wants to sink in the question that lingers like smoke, filling her lungs up to have her hold her breath. “...Is that why she wrote to me?”

Her logic is sound, and Sooyoung would be right —sort of.

Jungeun thought the same; that it’d build a good rapport, make infiltration and deception easier to execute. She allowed Yerim to continue running back and forth precisely _because_ of that.

And it worked; Sooyoung never thought to doubt them. 

But Yerim didn’t write to make their job easier.

“She wrote those letters because she wanted to, not because she had to.” Jungeun’s quick to correct, catching herself from reaching forward, gripping her arms. “She just wanted to be friends with you.” 

She nudges her free foot against Sooyoung’s forearm, attempting to ease the wrinkles on her forehead. 

“She doesn’t seem to care about what you do.” Jungeun watches Sooyoung’s brows furrow, “Makes me a little worried, sometimes. Then again, I’m not all that different. Maybe she got that from me.”

Sooyoung doesn’t seem to know what to say; her mouth moves as if to voice out, but closes just as fast. 

“There,” Sooyoung pats her ankle, bunching up the bundles of tissues into a ball, twisting the cap back on the bottle. “Keep it up; it shouldn’t take too long to dry.” 

Jungeun ignores how her ears still burn at the sight of her feet dangling near Sooyoung. It makes her feel vulnerable, and childish.

“Thanks,” she pauses, “...again.”

Sooyoung looks like she’s juggling syllables on her lips, as if there was more to say, but when a small smile curls at the corners, Jungeun gets distracted — completely misses out the reason _why_ Sooyoung’s amused until there’s a gentle pinch on her right foot’s big toe. 

Jungeun squawks, cheeks aflame, yanking her legs back to hug them close, knees to her chest.

“W-What was _that_ for?!”

“It’s cute,” Sooyoung’s voice is playful, turning the ignition on and pulling the gear to drive, gaze on the road like she didn’t just color Jungeun’s skin red. “Don’t you think so, Happy Feet?”

Jungeun doesn’t know which option is better: kick Sooyoung out of the car or jump out of it, herself. 

She shrinks further into her seat, whining and hiding behind a hand that barely covers the fire so obvious on her skin, Sooyoung’s happy laughter tugging strings in her chest. 

—

Jungeun doesn’t like thinking about what could happen next. 

There are too many possibilities and none of them look good. 

Sooyoung pulls up at the front of Jungeun’s home, gaze flickering to the lights that illuminate behind the curtains, the night sky a cool backdrop to the house’s warm glow. 

“I hope she’s having fun,” Sooyoung says, eyes still drawn to the shadows behind the window. 

Jungeun wonders if she’s allowed to reach out, usher her in so she won’t have to wait for a decision Sooyoung’s still struggling to make. 

“She’d have more fun if you were there,” Jungeun purses her lips, “you know she wants to see you.” 

Sooyoung turns away. “I know,”

“Then—“

“I can’t stay,” 

Jungeun watches her, recognizes the sadness clouding her gaze; lost and hesitant. Like she doesn’t know where else to go. 

It’s selfish, but Jungeun hopes it’s only because Sooyoung doesn’t want to be anywhere else without her.

“Then let’s run away; go somewhere far, together.” Jungeun almost laughs at how Sooyoung perks up, “You’re not the only one they’re after.” 

It’s supposed to be a joke; she can’t do that when there’s too much to fix and people she can’t leave behind. 

Her team, for one, would be looking for her and Sooyoung, if they suddenly disappeared. 

They’d want Sooyoung more than ever to not lose what they’ve already invested in for months; even more so when the ICA itself wants to eliminate an obvious asset. Sooyoung may be expendable to them, but not to Jungeun’s team. 

The chase would never end. Jungeun wouldn’t mind running away with her forever. 

But Yerim’s safety comes first. 

“Maybe,” Sooyoung’s wry smile is wider this time, and brighter. “But I think we both know you and Choerry will be safer without me.” 

It’s heart wrenching knowing Sooyoung understands that, too. 

Jungeun wonders if this is where they end. Parting ways to their respective houses, gathering the few things they need before separating to seek the safety Jungeun knows she’ll only find in Sooyoung and nowhere else.

Jungeun contemplates if it’s out of place to lean in and go for it — taste Sooyoung’s lips before she misses the chance to. 

“Does this mean anything?” 

Jungeun frowns, fingers itching to touch her, hold her hand. “What do you mean?”

Sooyoung’s gaze shifts to her lips; it pulls Jungeun like a magnet, the urge in her bones shaking her to leap forward, make the want swirling in Sooyoung’s eyes _happen._

“This,” Sooyoung’s hand moves, gestures to them both. “Whatever this is.” 

Jungeun almost laughs. Sooyoung makes it sound like it’s so hard to say “Us”. 

“...It does.” Jungeun tries to catch her eyes when Sooyoung seems to want to look at anything else but her. “This means something to Yerim, too.” She pauses, lets the syllables tumble on her tongue. “And you?” 

When Sooyoung finally looks up, meeting her gaze, Jungeun stops hesitating. 

“...This means everything, to me.” 

Sooyoung’s smile tastes like a goodbye; how she lets Jungeun come closer, cradle her face, tug her in until there’s nothing left between them except for the kisses Jungeun doesn’t want to stop giving. 

So Jungeun tries to memorize the slopes of her lips, the smell on her skin, the softness in her touch, because once she lets go, she might never get the chance to have them again.

The thought makes Jungeun hold on tighter. 

—

Jungeun slips in through the backdoor, spots the party still going on like she never left, children’s laughter ricocheting the walls of her home.

She hurries up to her room, changes out of the mess she’s wearing for a set of clothes more suited for comfort and mobility, carefully placing Sooyoung’s jacket on her desk chair.

Jungeun rummages for the painkillers in her bathroom, knows it’ll be a little while before she could get back to HQ, and swallows. 

She unties the careful knot on her shoulder for a cleaner dressing, plucking the gauze from her first aid kit, wincing at the sight of both new and old blood, and the hole left behind, before covering it back up. 

Jungeun glances at all the other little cuts on her skin from the bullets she’s managed to somehow avoid, all of them already scabbing over.

She breezes through each drawer for her gear, makes up for all the equipment she’s lost from the scrimmage; a spare cellphone, wallet, and some cash. 

Jungeun considers packing a few things, but other than her handgun strapped to her waist and an extra 9mm magazine in her black leather jacket, she figures there’s nothing else worth bringing.

Now she just needs to somehow convince Yerim to leave her own birthday party.

Yerim finds her the moment she steps a foot off the stairs. 

“Mommy? Are you going somewhere?” She frowns, “And why is there a cut on your face?”

Jungeun reaches up to her cheek. 

She should’ve at least covered that.

“Actually, _we’re_ going somewhere.” Jungeun kneels to meet her at eye-level, “And don’t worry, it’s just a scratch.” 

Yerim pouts. “But why? I’m having a birthday party.” 

“I know,” Jungeun tries to remedy the disappointment on her lips, rubbing her arm, easing the slump on her shoulders. “I’m sorry, sweetie. We’ll do another party, later. Okay? Just— we have to end this one a little early.” 

“But Eevee isn’t here, yet.” Yerim shrugs her hand off; it stings. “She said she’d be here.”

“I know, it’s—“ _complicated,_ Jungeun thinks, tucking her hair back. “She’s been busy.” 

“But she said she’d make it.” 

“I know,” 

Yerim looks like she’s about to say something, the way her mouth opens and closes, as if words endlessly culminate on her tongue, but none of them stick around long enough to make a sound. 

Yerim huffs, stomps a foot before scurrying off, whisked away with a crowd of kids still stuck on playing Jenga. 

Jungeun stands to follow her. “Wait, Yerim—“ 

“Jungeun!” Jiwoo’s juggling several slices of cake, manages to place one in Jungeun’s hands. “Here, for you. What took you so long? And what’s with the outfit? Love those jeans, by the way.” 

Jungeun yelps, overwhelmed by the sudden influx of balloons as children run past them, a flurry of colours and laughter nearly making her drop the cake. 

“Hey, be careful!” Jiwoo’s not all that threatening despite how much her voice rises, “Or else none of you gets cake!” 

That doesn’t seem to matter much when they’re busy fighting over what color they want, some of the balloons beginning to float up to the ceiling. 

Jungeun doesn’t have the energy to fix it, thankful that Jiwoo steps in, a little more menacing, hands on her hips.

“Hey, keep that up and _none_ of you gets a balloon.” 

Jungeun places her slice of the cake on the dining table; she has no appetite when there’s more to worry about. 

Her gaze wanders around the room, sees images of her and Yerim in moments she often replays in her head like a memory film. 

Pictures flicker from the times they’ve baked together, to watching movies and cuddling on the couch, to arguments and broken hearts and too many apologies as they hug it out on the floor.

“Sorry it took so long,” Jiwoo’s by her side again, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. “They’re a lot more stubborn than I thought. Reminds me of why I don’t want kids.” 

“Speaking of kids,” Jungeun glances back, attempts to find one in particular. “Where’s Yerim?”

Jiwoo frowns, her head turning towards the living room; most of the kids are either playing games, or watching the television. But there’s no sign of the birthday girl. 

“Weird, I swear I just saw her.” 

Jungeun ignores the fear crawling up her throat, but it must be obvious because Jiwoo’s gripping her injured shoulder, making her look back at her. 

Jungeun hides her wince, feels the wound sting under her hand. “Jiwoo—“

“Just relax, okay? I’m sure she’s somewhere around here; maybe in the bathroom?” Jiwoo shifts back, moving towards the hallway. “I’ll look here, you cover that side. It’ll be faster this way.” 

“Right,” Jungeun lets out a breath, nodding. “Thanks, Jiwoo.” 

“And then we’ll sit down and eat that cake and talk about why you look like you’re leaving, again.” 

Jungeun almost flinches; Jiwoo’s voice has an edge that contrasts completely with the easy smile on her lips. She knows her too well. 

She watches Jiwoo walk off before turning around, attempting to discern her little girl’s face between all the other children. 

“Yerim?”

She ignores the panic slowly beginning to rise, eyes frantically searching, feet maneuvering between balloons and puzzle pieces and laughing kids. 

She checks the kitchen, the living room, the basement, their bedrooms, the bathroom, hoping that maybe Yerim’s just hiding away behind the shower curtain. 

But there’s nothing. 

Jiwoo catches up from behind, worry evident in her voice. “Nothing outside; I even asked the kids; none of them know where she went.” 

Jungeun hates the way terror seizes her heart. 

—

Yves dumps her clothes for new ones; a three-piece suit with more pockets to spare.

It also gives her peace of mind to know she’s not wearing the same outfit that had been in the dumpster— even if it had been mere seconds that left nothing behind. Those were seconds too long.

She hears the ruckus next door through her open bedroom window, laughing children echoing into her ears, wondering if Choerry’s voice is a part of it. 

Yves moves to the closet, remembers the stuffed toy she had bought on a whim as soon as she heard the shopkeeper mention its name. 

_(“Oh, that?” The woman pointed at the toy, sitting up on a ledge with a blue looking turtle. “That one’s name is ‘Eevee’. I take it you don’t watch much TV?”_

_Yves couldn’t stop staring at it, letting time pass even when she left the toy shop for other, more important, things._

_But she always wandered back to it._

_When her feet led her towards the shop’s window for the ninth time that day, Yves took it home.)_

Yves wonders if Choerry would like it; it’s not gift-wrapped, and she doesn’t have a birthday card (she was hoping to have enough time after her kill tonight to get one— that clearly didn’t work out as planned), but maybe this alone could be enough to make up for her absence.

She could drop this off before she goes, maybe even get the chance to see Choerry one last time. 

“I guess you’re going to have a new home, and probably one where you’re not stuck in the closet all day. Excited?” Yves lifts the toy, scoffs at its large eyes, mutters beneath her breath. “...Why am I even talking to you?” 

Yves shuts the lights off, holds it beneath her arm, about to reach for the doorknob to leave her room before she hears it; wood creaking beneath each muffled step. 

From the sound of it, there’s more than one. 

Yves presses her ear to the door, tries to map out where they’re coming from, estimate how far they are, guess how many.

Not surprised the ICA have broken in, probably knew she’d come back for the rest of her things; Yves’ just surprised they never had another squad already waiting for her at home.

They should’ve known better.  
  


Their footsteps are quiet, but her hearing is better than most.   
  


Sounds like there’s three.  
  


Yves’ learned how to not panic — calculate the odds instead, figure out a way to handle the situation without worrying about what ifs.   
  


Prioritizing helps ease her nerves, focus on what matters most. That usually translated to just surviving. 

  
“...Eevee…?”  
  


But hearing Choerry’s small voice in the middle of an attempted assassination knocks survival off the top of her priority list.  
  


Panic thrums Yves’ veins, kicks her limbs into gear, yanking the door open and dismissing stealth entirely. All she sees are killers eager for the opportunity Choerry’s just presented them with.  
  


One of them gets too close.  
  


Her throat burns. “Get away from her!”   
  


Yves charges down the hall, tackles him just as his hand grazes Choerry’s back, feels him crash against the wall, staggering backwards to stand and crush his head beneath her shoe before he even gets the chance to look up.   
  


“Eevee!”   
  


She follows her voice, sees Choerry trembling, attempting to get closer before shots are fired; a bullet pierces Yves’ side. 

She grunts, stumbling, the stuffed toy dropping to the floor, the pain spreading fast like a forest fire, warmth seeping into her dress shirt. 

Yves leans against the wall for support, catches a glimpse of Choerry’s face, terror painting her expression.   
  


She shouldn’t be seeing this— there’s too much blood; she shouldn’t have seen her _kill_ someone; she should be safe and sound and—  
  


“Eevee!” Choerry’s clutching her jacket, attempting to help keep her up. “A-Are you okay?”  
  


Her voice is enough to jolt her into action, lunge forward to lift Choerry into her arms and grab the toy by her feet just as another set of shots get fired, dashing into the living room, hiding behind the sofa. 

  
“What—“ she catches her breath, winces; her side aches, heat dripping down her skin. ”Just— what are you doing here? How did you even get in?” 

  
“You weren’t there…” Choerry’s voice matches her whisper, low and timid. “...at my party. So I went to look for you. And the door was open...”   
  


Does Jungeun know about this?   
  


Yves doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what to feel — except for the pain lodged in her side.   
  


She hears them draw closer: _clack, clack, clack._  
  


“Stay here,” she sets Choerry down, urges her to keep low, making sure the stuffed toy is safe between Choerry’s arms; she hopes it brings Choerry some comfort. “I’ll be right back.”   
  


Yves watches her nod, squeezing the gift that’s almost as big as her, before focusing on the last remaining assassin still in her house.   
  


She waits until they’re beside the sofa before sneaking by her, kicking her knee, knocking away her pistol, and grabbing a fistful of her hair. 

Yves doesn’t hesitate shoving her head against the glass coffee table — once, twice, _thrice_ , for good measure.  
  


Yves didn’t think the agent would have any more energy left with a broken face to grab a shard and retaliate, but she does, slashing Yves’ stomach, forces her to stagger backwards.   
  


Glass crunches beneath Yves’ feet, has her crouching to grab her own makeshift knife, the texture cool in her hand.   
  


She doesn’t know when Choerry left the comfort of being hidden behind the sofa, but she’s lined up in the middle of the assassin’s view — and that only means one thing.

The agent seems to know it, too. “Ready to play catch?” 

Yves’ eyes widen.

Time slows as soon as the woman launches a piece of glass towards Choerry.

Yves lunges before it could reach her, catches it with a gloved hand that tremors from a close call and not because the edges have pierced her palm open, embedded itself into her skin.  
  


The only pain that registers is the fact that had she been a second slower, it would’ve been lodged in Choerry’s head, instead.   
  


The assassin sounds disappointed. “You’ve gotten soft; I was expecting better from you.”  
  


Yves pivots as soon as another glass shard thrusts forward, quick to close the distance, ensnaring the woman’s wrist and disarms her with a kick to the side of her knee and an elbow to her head.   
  


She jabs the glass through her neck without a second thought, doesn’t wait for her to fall backwards before Yves’ yanking it out, watches red sprawl down the agent’s chin, soaking over her chest.   
  


Yves listens to her choke on her blood, gurgling and spewing crimson across the floor.  
  


Yves’ used to the image of the dead laid out in their own pool of blood, forgets there’s another pair of eyes until Choerry’s looming closer, her tiny shoes a stark contrast to the life oozing out of a gash on a neck.  
  


Yves jumps to stop her, forgets there’s a bullet lodged in her side.   
  


“W-Wait, Choerry—“   
  


Oh god, she saw her do all _that_ —   
  


Choerry frowns, pulls her arms from Yves’ grip to take another step forward, as if curiosity was fueling her legs.  
  


“...I can handle it, okay?” Choerry says, tugs her wrist to follow along. “...I’ve seen worse.” 

  
Yves recoils. “What do you mean?”   
  


What could be worse than seeing a dead body?   
  


“Like the time mommy kicked Mr. Snuggly Six-Legs down the stairs.” 

Oh.  
  


Choerry‘s fingers poke her leather-clad knuckles, tracing gently around the glass still stuck in Yves’ hand; reminds her of all the injuries she should tend to.  
  


“You saved me,”   
  


“It’s like you’ve said,” Yves huffs, winces when she tries to pull the shard. “...I’m a Pokémon.”   
  


Maybe it’s because the rush of adrenaline is winding down that the pain shooting through her side hurts worse than when it happened.   
  


The cut on her stomach doesn’t help.  
  


“...Eevee?”   
  


Yves reaches for the wall, slides down so she could at least rest against something, avoid falling over because she knows Choerry — in all her small glory, would still try to catch her.   
  


She can’t grasp her side without the glass piercing deeper into her palm, so she focuses on yanking it out first.   
  


At least it isn’t her shooting hand.   
  


“Just—“ A sharp inhale, grimaces from the sting as soon as she starts to pull; her hand trembles, swallowed in the colour she’s seen all her life. “—Don’t worry, I got it…” 

Choerry shouldn’t be seeing any of this; she shouldn’t be watching her bleed — shouldn’t even be _here._

But Choerry seems adamant to stick around, her hand resting on Yves’ shoulder, like she’s there to be her support. 

“...Don’t you have a party to be at?” Yves attempts to distract Choerry from being too focused on the blood oozing from her hand. “I’m sure everyone’s looking for you.” 

“It’s not a party without you,” 

Yves ignores the warmth bubbling in her chest. 

“I’m sure your friends would more than make up for it.“ Yves grunts, flings the glass shard away as soon as it’s out, curling her fingers to stave off a bit of the bleeding; it won’t do much, but it’s enough. “Don’t you have games to play?”

“Yeah, but it’s not fun knowing you’re not there.” 

Yves would laugh, if the pain wasn’t getting to her, clutching her side, feels it throb beneath her hand.

At least the cut on her stomach is shallow; one less thing to worry about. 

“You can look away,” Yves says, notes how Choerry never strays her gaze too far from her. “This isn’t...this isn’t something you should be seeing.”

“Why not?” She pauses, “I want to make sure you’re okay.” 

For a girl who just turned ten years old, she’s way too good with words. 

Choerry plops down next to her, the stuffed toy still secured in her arms. “...I want you to be a cockroach.” 

The laughter boiling on her tongue doesn’t leave her lips, inhaling sharply. It hurts to breathe, but she has to keep moving. 

There’s no way the ICA would leave her alone; they’ve lost too many agents to give up now. 

She just has to get Choerry home.

Yves tries to stand, grunts. “...I thought I was a Pokémon?” 

Choerry’s all teary-eyed, gripping Yves’ arm. 

Her hold barely circles her limb, and there’s no strength in her grip, but Yves drops back down anyway because it’s easier to stay when Choerry’s the one insisting.

Her body wouldn’t mind getting a bit of rest in, anyway; take a moment to breathe.

“Cockroaches are hard to kill,” Choerry pauses, bottom lip jutting out. “You’re supposed to be hard to kill…”

Yves chuckles, grimacing at the shot of pain. God, she didn’t think it’d be this hard to laugh. 

The room’s starting to spin, eyelids growing heavy. 

“...I’m not dead, yet.” 

“And it’ll stay that way.” 

It doesn’t escape Yves how fast her heart rate picks up from just the sound of her voice — recognizes it like it’s a melody she can’t forget.

Jungeun stomps towards her, eyes aflame with emotions Yves’ too tired to decipher; not when Jungeun’s fury seeps through the way she presses hard against Yves’ wound, blood spilling across her white cotton shirt. 

_Ow._

She never heard her come in. When did she even—

Yves hisses at the added pressure, Jungeun’s hand a steady weight against her side. 

Guess drowning in pain will do that to anyone, dulling the senses, diminish any traces of strength to resist. Not that she ever could when Jungeun’s brushing away hair from her eyes. 

“Stay with me,” Jungeun’s voice sounds close yet so far away; it reminds her of a more intoxicated Jungeun under strobe lights — how she had instructed her the same thing. “Hey, stay with me, Sooyoung.”

It’s dizzying to have Jungeun this close, feel her heat bleed into her skin.

Yves grunts, squeezing her eyes shut. The room is spinning quicker; her body doesn’t want to move, exhaustion tethering her down.

“Jungeun...“ 

“Just stay with me, okay?” Jungeun’s free hand is gentle and shaky on her cheek; she urges her to turn her head, but it’s an effort just to breathe. “You’re not going anywhere. I won’t let you.” 

That shouldn’t ever be something Jungeun would want from her; especially not when she’s been more than just a single mother.

Shouldn’t she be doing her job? Bring her in?

“But—“ 

Yves’ words cut short, swallowed down in favour of breathing in when Jungeun shifts to take a peek, guides her arm out of her blazer’s sleeve for a better look.

“No but’s,” Jungeun’s thumb is tracing soft circles on Yves’ cheek - a stark contrast to the pressure she applies on her side. “Just shut up and stay with me.” 

It’s almost terrifying how easy it is to listen to her. 

Jungeun’s fingers are searing. “Here, let me.” 

Yves can’t tell if the heat crawling up her neck is due to pain, or the touch of gentle hands on her skin when Jungeun unbuttons her vest and lifts her dress shirt enough to see. 

Jungeun’s frown has to be the easiest expression she’s ever gotten to read.

“...That bad, huh.” Yves says, hopes to break up a bit of the dreary atmosphere. 

Jungeun rolls her eyes. “I’m going to take it out,” 

Yves would’ve been a lot more impressed with Jungeun’s eerie calm if she hadn’t already seen her wield a pistol through her scope. 

“Bite down,” Jungeun says, passing over one of the pillows on her couch. “The bullet isn’t too far in, but it’s still going to hurt.” 

Yves knows the drill, lived through this scenario one too many times; it never gets easier. 

But with Choerry rubbing circles on her shoulder, it definitely helps ease the pain, a little.

Jungeun’s weak smile is all she sees before pain surges up her side.

There’s no warning, jolting back against the wall behind her, biting down hard, groaning and hissing as Jungeun’s fingers squirm into her open flesh. 

Yves’ nails dig into her palms, the cut from the glass a dull ache compared to the sharp pain pulsing with every little movement Jungeun makes. 

It’s dizzying how much it hurts. 

She doesn’t know how much time has passed, just recognizes when it ends; with Jungeun stroking her cheek as if to help clear the ache away, blinking to find Jungeun smiling.

The bullet drops to the floor. _Clink._

“It’s done.” 

Yves can barely keep herself upright, vision fading in and out, the pillow dropping to her lap. 

Jungeun’s voice sounds muffled compared to the rapid drumming of her heart; she can’t discern the words, hears bits and pieces between the ringing in her ears: “Yerim” and “Bleeding” and “Stop”. 

Yves isn’t sure how long it takes for her senses to return, but by the time she can finally distinguish each syllable from Jungeun’s lips and the worry etched across her face, the pain doesn’t hurt as much anymore. 

“Welcome back,” Jungeun says, finishing up with the knots of a shirt tied around her waist, a makeshift wrap from the same top already secured around her injured hand, glove gone. “I couldn’t find a first-aid kit so I went with the next best thing.” 

Yves doesn’t know what to say. But what she does know is if Jungeun keeps looking at her like that, she might never find the right words to tell her anything.   
  


None of them would measure up. 

“...Thanks.” 

She grunts, forces herself to stand, wobbling to keep upright, slipping her arm back through her jacket’s sleeve. Jungeun never lets go of her.

The footsteps outside trickle into her ears; they’re coming. 

“...You have to go,” 

Yves shoves Jungeun’s hands away, ushering Choerry to go to her mother, ignoring frantic eyes in favor of picking up a lone pistol from the floor and checking the number of rounds left.

She clutches her side; there hasn’t been enough time to get the bleeding to stop, feeling warmth seep beneath her fingers, slowly soaking through.

But she has more important things to worry about. 

“I’m not leaving you,” Jungeun says, taking a step closer. 

Yves clicks her tongue. “Choerry comes first,” 

“No, Eevee.” Choerry’s voice comes out clipped; it’s the first time she’s seen her glare. Jungeun has clearly influenced her. “I won’t be your excuse.” 

No one’s listening to her. 

She tries again. “Jungeun—” 

“You heard us, Sooyoung.” She didn’t think she’d hear her true name other than when Jungeun’s being sweet and tender. “End of discussion.” 

Yves doesn’t get the chance to say anything more when her windows shatter and bullets spray through, yanking them down. 

She keeps them low, guides them to follow her towards the kitchen; catches Jungeun maneuver to peel a firearm hidden on her waist.

It’s different when she watches Jungeun up close (it was easier to dismiss it when all she saw was a glimpse through her scope), how she carries it, checks the magazine, cocks the gun — she’s clearly done this so often that she’s a natural. 

“Stay close,” Yves says, hushed.

Choerry’s sandwiched between them, feels her little hand grip the end of her jacket. She’s a strong girl, managing to not crack under the tension, recognizing the need to stay quiet. 

Yves halts them to pause behind her, hears another set of footsteps creak near her. She takes advantage of the split-second window the woman makes walking in through the back door to sneak up behind her.

A kick to the knee, a twist of the neck — _crack._

Yves lowers the body gently, picking up the sound of the carpet floor muffle another pair of footsteps.

She’s about to act on it, but by the time she sets the body down, Jungeun’s already shot a bullet between his eyes, his figure slumping against the couch. 

Pride swirls on her tongue, swallows it down because she’ll praise Jungeun later when they’re no longer worrying about their lives. 

“Come on,” 

She ushers them to the backyard, lifting Choerry up into her arms so they can break out into a sprint, Jungeun keeping up beside her. 

She has several backup plans for times like these: a car stowed away close by (probably compromised, knowing how the ICA operates), a travel bag and a spare passport ready to be used with one quick call to Haseul, fly someplace far — but nothing for Jungeun and Choerry. 

She doesn’t bother calling.

“Eevee…?” Yves turns to meet Choerry’s eyes, feels her finger poke her cheek. “...I guess we’re not going back for my birthday party, huh.” 

Jungeun’s soft laughter is music to her ears. 

Yves can’t hold hers in either, ignoring the ache in her side. “...You’ll have a better one, next year.” 

Her stomach flutters at the smile Choerry wears, hears her mutter “Promise?” as if Yves was someone who could make that happen.

She doesn’t know if she’ll even get to make it that far. 

Yves is spared from answering when someone else yells out to them, bewildered to find Choerry’s babysitter jogging up from behind.

“Jiwoo?!” Jungeun pauses, “What are you doing here? You should be—“

“What, looking after a party where the host and birthday girl are both missing? What’s the point?” She huffs, bent over to catch her breath. “Besides, the parents all came by because it’s getting late so no one’s there anymore. And I just — I had a feeling you were up to something.”

Yves stares, unsure of the look Jiwoo’s giving her when she raises her head, doubt blooming across her eyes.

Jungeun’s gaze darts between Jiwoo and the distance they’ve made from the house. 

“I— I’m sorry, but we have to go.” Jungeun’s hand circles Yves’ elbow, tugs gently. “It’s not safe here, you need to head home.” 

“So you _are_ working again.” Jiwoo frowns, stands upright. “And obviously your neighbour is, too.” 

Yves stiffens. Clearly she wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.

Jungeun looks exasperated, letting go to step forward, urge Jiwoo away from them. 

“Jiwoo— this isn’t the _time._ ”

“Then let’s go,” Jiwoo’s tugging Jungeun’s elbow, her other hand gripping Yves’ arm. “I’ll lecture you on the way.” 

“Wha— Jiwoo! It’s _dangerous!_ ” Jungeun half-shouts, half-whispers, attempting to remove her fingers, but Jiwoo has a strength she can’t seem to shake off, pushing them forward. “You can’t come with us — it’s not safe!” 

“And you expect me to just let you go knowing _you’re_ not safe?” Jiwoo scoffs, ushers them to start running, matching their pace. “That’s not how best friends work.”

Yves doesn’t want to intrude on their quarrel, and from Choerry’s silence, feeling her snuggle closer instead, the toy dangling by her side, she doesn’t seem to want to, either. 

But they’re not going to make much distance or blend in with the quiet if they continue to keep this up.

Jungeun’s still trying. “Jiwoo— _please_ ,” 

“You think I didn’t hear all that commotion next door?” Jiwoo quips, her gaze fluttering to Yves, gestures to her side. “I’m not deaf or blind, Jungeun. She’s literally _bleeding_ through her shirt; I know whatever it is you two are tangled up in, I can help.” 

Yves doesn’t know how Jiwoo can assist, but Jungeun’s mouth stays shut like that’s all it takes to convince her. Whatever it is, Yves’ just glad they’re quiet. 

Yves guides them through an empty street, sets Choerry down to slam her elbow through the window of a car, knows the model’s too old to set off an alarm. 

It’s not until she manages to start the car up that they bicker again.

“We’ll drop you off home,” Jungeun says, helps Choerry into the backseat, “they’re not after you.” 

“Because they’re after _you_ , clearly.” Jiwoo snaps, tugs Yves’ elbow to pull her out of the driver’s seat. “You’re not driving, by the way.” 

Yves’ bewildered, attempts to go back, take the wheel, but Jiwoo’s hand on her arm is strong.

They don’t have time for this. “Listen, I can—“

“Sorry, cutie. But I’d rather not have you bleeding out behind the wheel; you’re too much of an eye candy to lose.” Jiwoo quips, pushes her to the backseat; winks like it’s second nature. “I’ll drive. You need to rest. Jungeun, you’re up front with me and you’re going to explain _exactly_ what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.” 

Jungeun looks like she can’t decide between calling out her flirtatious tongue or scolding her for ordering her around.

“Jiwoo, just — I’ll drive, okay?” 

“No, I don’t trust your driving.”

“Wha— what makes you think yours is any better?”

“Just because you’ve had some fancy agent training doesn’t mean anything. Besides, I’ve had plenty of shitty girlfriends and I sometimes like taking my sadness out behind the wheel instead of drinking, okay?” Jiwoo slides into the driver’s seat, mutters under her breath. “...And going a little over the speed limit.”

Jungeun’s barely in the passenger seat before she’s yelling again. “ _Jiwoo!_ ” 

Yves knows she has no place in their conversation, opts to focus on the pulsing heat in her side, still dripping with crimson, pressing down on it. She winces. 

She feels tiny fingers reach out to hold her free hand. 

“Are you okay…?” Choerry’s pointing at the red pooled across her dress shirt; her grip barely covers any of it. “It looks bad…” 

Yves squeezes her hand, forces her eyes to stay open. Not having anything to do to distract herself from feeling exhausted makes her keenly aware of how much her body aches. 

She rests her head back, wills the pain to go away. Maybe a little sleep won’t hurt.

“...I’ll be fine.” 

Yves feels Choerry squeeze back. 

—

“...Mommy?” 

Jungeun’s busy directing Jiwoo on where to go when Yerim taps her shoulder, turns around to spot Yerim silently gesturing to keep quiet, a finger to her lips. 

Sooyoung’s passed out in the backseat, no doubt from the amount of blood she’s lost.

“Are we going to get help? She doesn’t look too good…”

“I know, baby. Don’t worry,” Jungeun eyes the red sprawled across what used to be white on Sooyoung’s shirt, “Just take this time to rest too, okay?” 

Yerim hums, settling back, notes how her hand is still holding onto Sooyoung’s — even when the woman’s fingers have already fallen open.

“Mind telling me the truth, now?” Jiwoo says, the radio dialled down to background noise. “I’m all ears.” 

Jungeun knows there’s no better time than now to tell Jiwoo — especially when Sooyoung can’t hear any of it. Jiwoo’s not the type to stop pestering her, either. 

She groans, drags a hand down her face, wonders where she should even start. How much of the truth could she actually say? 

“...You’re right, I’m working.” Jungeun says, hears the gears in Jiwoo’s head begin to turn; gives it away with how her back straightens up. “I’ve never stopped working.”

Jungeun chances a peek to her side, see if Jiwoo has any sort of reaction — but all she catches is Jiwoo’s shaking head, a scoff leaving her throat. 

“Even with a kid?” 

Jungeun stays quiet, but maybe it’s because of her silence that Jiwoo chuckles, inevitable when she comes up with the answer, herself.

The disbelief isn’t hard to miss.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jiwoo starts, stops at a red light. “Yerim is _part_ of this?” 

Yerim chirps up from the backseat. “I wanted to be,” 

Jiwoo stares bewildered through the rear-view mirror, combs fingers through her hair, sighing. 

“No wonder you don’t look surprised,” 

“We’re a family, now.” Jungeun rubs her arm, attempts to erase the nerves climbing up her limbs. “In case you were wondering.” 

Jiwoo laughs a little. 

“I can tell. I haven’t seen you be happier with anyone else.” She frowns, “Still. She’s just a _kid._ What made you think it was even a good idea in the first place? And why would you need to pretend to have one? I’m sure you could’ve acted as anything else — just, why?” 

Jungeun steals a glance back at Sooyoung, grateful that a bit of colour is returning to her face. 

She’s not sure she could answer all that. 

Jiwoo’s nudging her elbow. “And what does the neighbour have to do with all this?” 

Right. The giant elephant in the room — and the sole reason they’re in this mess. Technically. 

Jiwoo probably wouldn’t appreciate being lied to, again. But she likely wouldn’t want to hear this kind of truth, either. 

Jungeun doesn’t want to find out what would happen if Jiwoo knew.

“...She’s a colleague.” 

Jiwoo scoffs. “You don’t sound convinced,” 

“Can we _please_ just focus on getting as far away from here as possible?” Jungeun sinks into her seat, massages her eyes. “I want to make sure we’re safe, first. Sooyoung still needs help.” 

Jiwoo’s sigh is all she hears before the quiet hum of the engine and the radio fills the car instead. 

Jungeun’s thankful for it, allows her to think back on all those close calls — how Sooyoung had undoubtedly kept Yerim safe, which wasn’t a surprise. But still. 

She wants to scold Yerim for having wandered off, but with how things are now, there’s no point. It’s already been done. She’s safe and that’s all that matters. 

“This is all my fault…” 

Yerim’s voice has her twisting around.

“Yerim,” 

“But it is,” Yerim looks up, her gaze straying from her hands still locked with Sooyoung’s to meet her eyes. “Eevee saved me. It’s all my fault that she’s hurt.” 

“Yerim…”

“So I’m going to make it up to her and bake lots of cookies,” she says, leans back, snuggles her cheek against the stuffed toy in her arms. “And then draw her a picture to take home as a thank you present.” 

Jungeun smiles, chuckles because at least Yerim’s tackling her guilt with optimism only a child could. 

She pats her knee. “Good girl.” 

Jungeun jumps when her phone vibrates, feels it jitter in her pocket.

She shouldn’t have been surprised to hear Jinsol already yelling at her as soon as the line clicks open.

_“You’re insane! Absolutely insane! I don’t even know what else to say!”_

Jungeun snorts. “Clearly. I can tell it’s your favourite word.” 

_“Okay, first of all, it’s true — you’re insane enough to bother fixing up an enemy and still act like you care; which we all saw, by the way.”_ Oh. Right. Cameras. _“Secondly, where the hell are you going and how long are you planning to drag this out?! There’s no use pretending anymore. They’re out to kill you!”_

Jungeun winces. She knows that much. But she isn’t the only one who’s running away from a threat. 

Jinsol pauses, _“...Don’t tell me Miss Lady Killer is still with you.”_

Jungeun doesn’t comment.

Jinsol’s screech pierces her ears, forces Jungeun to yank the phone away, listen to her yell with her arm outstretched. 

_“Are you kidding me?! She’s an assassin, Jungeun! A killer! You’re not supposed to be running away with a killer!”_

Unfortunately, she’s not the only one in the car.

Jiwoo’s eyes bulge out of their sockets, feels the car swerve, hands stiff on the wheel.

“Wait, _what?!_ ”

Jungeun sinks further into her seat, groaning.

Jiwoo looks like she can’t decide what to do, whether she should be keeping her eyes on the road, or darting back and forth to glare at her, or the rear-view mirror.

At least Sooyoung’s too exhausted to hear any of this.

“Did she just say _killer_?” Jiwoo yelps, Jungeun’s fingers inches away from pinching her arm again — urges her to keep her voice down. Jiwoo barely lowers it. “Your hot neighbour is a _killer?!_ Did I just flirt with death?!”  
  


Jungeun arches a brow. “So, you _were_ flirting,”

  
  


“That’s not the point!”

She sighs. Having one friend yell at her was already more than enough. And one too many.

They better not wake Sooyoung up. 

Jiwoo laughs, sounding both impressed and in disbelief. 

“You know what, the only reason I’m not slapping you right now is because I’m busy driving.” 

Jinsol snorts. _“Tell her I hope she does it soon because it’s about time you got some common sense slapped back into you.”_

Jungeun scowls, turns away towards the window, streetlights flitting by. Now that she knows how similar they are in terms of lecturing her, she’ll keep it in mind to never place Jinsol and Jiwoo in the same room.

“Can we please just focus on the fact that I’m fine?”

_“For now,”_ Jinsol pauses, as if to soak in the words in her head, voice going an octave higher. _“considering you’re still with the assassin who literally tried to_ kill _you!”_

Jiwoo’s parrot-yelling again. “She tried to _kill_ you?!”

How long are they going to keep their voices up? 

Jiwoo’s still rambling. “Then what the hell is she still here for?! And what are _you_ doing keeping her around?!”

“Jiwoo, seriously. We’ll talk about this later, so can you just—“

The next thing Jungeun knew, they were flying.

There was no warning, tumbling like rag dolls held on by a seatbelt— the only reason they haven’t shot out the window as soon as the car rolled over. 

Jungeun recalls it in flashes: a collision to the side, how it takes mere seconds for glass to shatter, pieces of metal and debris scattering across the air. She wouldn’t be surprised if she gets punctured by one. 

She doesn’t know how long it takes for her senses to kick back in, waking up to smoke, ringing ears, and the ground above her head, seat belt taut against her.

Jungeun groans, feels liquid warmth drip down the side of her face. Her shoulder aches.

“...Jiwoo?” She croaks, the silence a stark contrast to the loudness that’d been in their voices a few seconds ago. “Jiwoo?” 

Smoke fills her vision, comes and goes along with the oxygen in her lungs, coughing and wheezing for air. 

She unhooks the seatbelt, drops to her back, hissing as soon as shards of glass and gravel prick her skin. 

There’s barely any room, but there’s enough to reach out, feel for the girl who’s supposed to be next to her. 

“Jiwoo…?” 

Relief washes over her as soon as she hears Jiwoo cough, moaning. “...Here…” 

It doesn’t stay long, panic surging up her chest.

“Yerim? Sooyoung?” Jungeun tries to turn her head, check on them, but it’s dark. “Baby? Can you hear me?”

She hears footsteps click closer, doesn’t register there’s someone else until they’re yanking Sooyoung from the backseat, sees her still unconscious, getting dragged across the road.

The piece of metal lodged in Sooyoung’s side has Jungeun’s pulse skyrocketing.

“Sooyoung—!” Jungeun barely screams before there’s a grip on her back, pulls her out of the car, cement scraping beneath her. 

They’re dressed in black, leather gloves, and cold eyes. She recognizes who they are — and what they’re capable of doing.

“Yerim!” She spots her little girl in someone else’s arms, unmoving, cuts adorning her face, blood dripping down her skin. “Yerim!” 

Jungeun struggles to stand, barely makes it up before she’s forced back down, falls to her knees. 

“You’re not going anywhere.” 

Jungeun grits her teeth, tries to elbow the assassin but they’re quicker, feels them stomp on her back, pressing her down. 

It doesn’t help that her vision still flickers on and off, attempts to blink exhaustion away, ignore all the aches and pain lining her limbs, her ribs, her head — they need her.

“You know,” there’s a breath on her ear, syllables breezing against her skin. “The best all started early. I bet she’ll do great making a living out of killing.”

Fury shoots up Jungeun’s spine, bashes her head back against the assassin’s nose, hears them staggering backwards.

“You’re not touching her!” 

Jungeun spins to lunge, takes the woman down, lands her fist to her face again and again and _again_ , no matter how much her shoulder still hurts, until all that’s left is a space that used to be a face— knuckles seared in that same colour she’s learning to hate. 

She hears gunshots echo through, finds her team come up from the sides, take out as much as they can, but her fear doesn’t settle.

Jungeun scrambles to find them, ease the tremor in her chest. 

She sees Sooyoung a few metres away, lifeless; red seemingly permanent on her skin — the hitman that dragged her lying in a pool of his own blood beside her.

Jungeun would rather have grey colour her life forever if it means never having to see all this crimson, again. 

Her knees scrape the pavement. “Sooyoung, please — wake up.” 

Jungeun’s frantic hands search for warmth through a battered jacket, careful to not move the object punctured in her side, gripping for anything to let her know there’s still life beneath all that dreadful colour.

“Sooyoung— Sooyoung, _please._ ” Her syllables come out croaked, breaking into whimpers at the sight of eyes that have yet to open. “Just— wake up.”

Jungeun lifts her head, knows that panic only continues to rise in her chest. 

_Yerim. Yerim. Yerim._

She wants to pretend the dark thoughts blooming in her head aren’t true, ignore the tears trickling down her face, blinks them away so she can’t miss the moment she finally finds Yerim. 

She can hear someone approach her, their voices muffled (it sounds like Jinsol, she thinks) — drowned out by the constant dull buzz plaguing her ears, and the pounding in her head. 

The world is starting to spin.

“Yerim, baby?” She croaks, twists and turns, begs that Yerim’s just a few feet away, ignoring the way she’s wobbling just to keep upright. “Where are you!?”

Jungeun barely manages a step before she’s dropping, vision darkening, scraping knees to meet concrete. Everything hurts. 

The last thing she hears is her name being called, falling forward, eyes drawing shut.

—

_“You don’t know what she’s capable of,”_

She recognizes that voice, how the panic settles in it, picturing the way her signature brows curve to make creases on her forehead.

Jinsol?

_“I think we’re well aware of what she can do. But that’s not the point.”_ Heels click the floor, muffled. _“She’s an asset. We’re not losing another chance.”_

Always firm and to the point. 

Vivi.

Jungeun stirs, head pounding the moment she moves, squeezes her eyes shut in hopes it’d lessen the pain. 

It doesn’t work. 

“Hey, sleeping beauty.” 

Curtains rise over her eyes, finds Jiwoo beside her, settled on another bed. There are band-aids decorating her face, her arm tied up in a sling. 

Jungeun lifts her hand, feels her head; there’s a dressing secured around it. She peels back her collar, sees her shoulder wrapped up in clean white gauze.

“Your coworkers talk too loud,” Jiwoo starts, chuckling, voice scratchy like she hasn’t used it in a while. “Or maybe your workplace just has thin walls. Bad for meetings, I say.” 

It doesn’t really register that Jiwoo’s making light conversation, not when Jungeun’s still blinking the fog away, recall every event that has led up to this moment. 

Purple overalls and a sunshine smile colour her vision. 

Jungeun shoots up, blankets spilling over the bed, ignores the throbbing ache simmering in her back and shoulder.

“Yerim? Where’s Yerim?” 

The door flings open before Jiwoo could breathe a word, Jinsol scrambling towards her, Vivi not far behind.

“You’re finally awake! You don’t know how worried we were!” Jinsol’s already stomping towards her, arms circling her shoulders. “Gave us all a heart attack!” 

Jungeun reaches up, pats her back; she can feel Jinsol trembling. 

“...Sorry,” she musters, voice hoarse — it hurts to swallow. 

“Just glad you’re okay,” Jinsol pulls back, straightening up. “Rest easy. It’s been a long day.” 

But Jungeun can’t do that. Not yet. 

“Where’s Yerim?” 

As soon as her name leaves her lips, Jinsol’s averting her gaze, not at all subtle.

It only makes worry pile up in her throat.

Vivi settles beside her. “Gone,” 

Jungeun recoils. “What? What do you mean—“

“I mean she’s been taken,” it’s blunt, but all Jungeun feels is the sharpness of her words, cutting deep into her lungs, taking every breath with her. “The ICA have her.” 

Her heart sinks, panic rising in its stead — and fear. 

“But don’t worry, we have Miss Lady Killer.” Jinsol says, attempts to reassure her but it only makes Jungeun’s breaths come out shorter. “We’ll make her talk.” 

Dread joins in filling up her chest.

They’re wrong. They’re all wrong; Sooyoung hasn’t— she wouldn’t do that to Yerim. Never.

“Jungeun?! Hey, you’re supposed to stay in bed.” Jinsol’s hands are on her arms, but Jungeun shoves them away, hisses when her shoulder aches to move. “See?” 

It doesn’t matter. She needs to see her. 

“Move, Sol.” Jungeun winces, head throbbing with every motion. “I need to— I have to go.” 

“No, you don’t.” 

She’s gritting teeth. “I do. I have to see her—“ 

“You don’t _have_ to do anything _,_ ” Jinsol scowls, fingers curling around her elbow. “And you definitely don’t need to see her.” 

“You don’t get to decide that,” 

“What is up with you? Since when do you—“ 

“Where is she?” 

Jungeun doesn’t have time for this. Sooyoung will know what to do — she knows them best. Sooyoung wouldn’t let anything happen to Yerim. Not if she can help it. 

Jinsol’s patience seems to be wearing thin. 

“Jungeun, I’m not disclosing that.” 

But so is Jungeun’s.

Her blood starts to bubble. “She is _my_ responsibility. Where is she?” 

“Your job is done already, Jungeun. It’s been finished the moment they sent more in to kill you.” Jinsol’s stern, curt, and to the point. “Your responsibility now is to _rest._ We’ll find Yerim.” 

How could they expect her to stand by when her baby girl is missing? 

Resting isn’t an option she could even consider taking.

She staggers out of bed, recognizes the room — a nursing unit in the far left wing of their office building, two floors below ground. 

Her locker is just down the hall. 

“Woah, hey — you’re not going anywhere.” Jinsol’s fingers barely circle her wrist before Jungeun’s yanking back, ignoring her frown in favour of finding her shoes. “Jungeun, please. Just listen to me,” 

She doesn’t respond, not when her mind’s whirling miles a minute searching for ways Sooyoung and her can get Yerim out. 

How could she listen to anything else but the way Yerim’s voice lingers in her head? 

_(“Mommy, I love you!”)_

She won’t rest until Yerim’s home. She _can’t._

Jinsol’s persistent. “Jungeun, you’re still in your gown.” 

“Then I’ll change,”

She expects Jinsol to cut in again, but it’s Vivi instead.

“Stand down, Jungeun.” She lifts her head, finds Vivi by the door, arms crossed. “Yves is no longer your concern.” 

Anger seeps across Jungeun’s tongue. “She’s the only one who knows where Yerim could be.” 

“We know that, Jungeun. Just leave the rest to us.” 

“I can talk to her,” 

“I know you can,” Vivi says, but there’s steel in her words. “But you won’t.” 

She wants to pull her hair out. Why can’t they just let her do what she has always been doing? 

Jungeun trudges towards the door, but Jinsol’s arm stretches across it. If she has to shove her way through, then so be it.

“Move.” 

“You’re too close to this, Jungeun.” Vivi says, softer this time. “We can handle this. We care about Yerim, too.” 

“But I can talk to Soo—“ she halts, swallows the rest of her name down; that’s a secret she’s been trusted to keep. “—Yves; she’ll listen to me.” 

“She probably will,” Vivi’s solemn, almost monotonous in her delivery, doesn’t comment on her slip. “But with a little more time, she’ll start talking all on her own.” 

Jungeun doesn’t like the way it sounds; like there isn’t a choice; ominous, grim— and inevitable. 

Doesn’t help that dread begins to pool in her stomach too, mind whirring at the possibility that she’s being kept away from Sooyoung for a completely different reason — and not because she’s supposed to rest.

She tries to keep her nerves from spilling into her voice. 

“...What does that mean?” 

Jinsol tugs her arm, ushers her back to the bed. 

“It means that you have nothing to worry about,” she picks up a remote from the coffee table, flickers on the television hung up on the corner of the room. “Now relax. And you, Jiwoo, right? Rest easy, too.” 

She thinks about the state she’d last seen Sooyoung in: battered, unconscious, _bleeding_ — 

“Jungeun?!” Jinsol yelps.

She dashes for the door, ignores the slivers of pain echoing through her legs, stumbling down the hallway towards the elevator. 

There’s only one place where they keep their prisoners. 

_Sooyoung. Sooyoung. Sooyoung._

She watches the numbers go down, hears the elevator ding before the doors slide open to crisp white walls and an endless corridor. 

Jungeun doesn’t care if people stare, more concerned with the nightmares teasing the corners of her mind, potential realities she’s hoping will never come true.

As soon as she spots short dark hair through the little window of a steel door, Jungeun holds her breath. 

“...Sooyoung?”

It’s dim, but she doesn’t need to see the colour she’s learned to hate when she can feel it between her toes, gentle heat against her skin, how it grows warmer the closer she gets; it chills her to the bone.

Jungeun scrambles to her, falls to her knees to see better, feels liquid warmth welcome her skin. She holds Sooyoung’s face in quaking hands — there’s too much red. 

“Sooyoung? Sooyoung, wake up.” She can’t tell if her vision mists over because she’s straining to see in the dark, the dim lights barely illuminating anything, or if it’s because tears have already settled beneath her eyes. “Please…wake up.” 

All she can hear is Sooyoung’s ragged breaths, shallow, and short— sees how much of a struggle it is just to breathe. Her body is hunched forward, hands and ankles tied to the chair.

The wound on her side has clearly been aggravated, though the metal is no longer there. Several cuts plaster her face and forehead, likely from shards of glass and debris from the car crash. 

She needs to get her out of here. 

“Just— hold on...” Jungeun still tries to talk, knows that Sooyoung can’t hear her, but the hope that maybe she can, keeps her moving. “...I’m here. Stay with me.” 

She barely manages to wipe away the specks of blood from Sooyoung’s cheek before someone’s yanking her backwards.

“What hell are you doing, Jungeun?!” 

She grunts, ignores Jinsol’s grip on her elbow. 

“She needs help,” 

“No, she doesn’t!” 

Jinsol isn’t backing down, hoists her up; there’s blood dripping from her knees, reminds her of how much Sooyoung must’ve lost to have it puddle around her feet.

“Yes, she does!” Jungeun refuses to freeze under all that colour — pretends it hasn’t already pooled the floor. “How could she talk if she’s—“

“We’re not treating criminals, Jungeun!” Jinsol’s not giving up, her arms tight around Jungeun’s waist, dragging her towards the door. “Please, let’s just go—“ 

“She’s not what you think she is!” 

Jungeun wrestles out of her grip, almost slips on the life that’s still seeping out of Sooyoung’s skin. 

“Do you even _hear_ yourself?!” 

She does. She hears how her voice cracks, desperation and despair filling her lungs, fear crawling up her chest at the thought that she’s already lost Yerim.

She can’t afford to lose Sooyoung, too. 

Jinsol’s scream is filled with frustration. “Why does it even matter?! She’s just going to die as soon as we’re done with her, anyway!“ 

Maybe it’s the way she says it, callous and indifferent, like it’s unavoidable — and well deserved.

Jungeun swings.

Her hand blurs, feels her skin whip through the air, collide with Jinsol’s cheek. 

It’s deafening how the impact rings — silencing the room so all she can hear are their breaths, how hers have grown heavy, anger seeping between each exhale. 

Jinsol’s rigid, as if frozen in time, her head turning slowly back to meet her eyes. Betrayal, scorn, surprise — all etched on her face.

Tendrils of regret pool in Jungeun’s stomach, remorse for hitting her friend, but still. 

Life shouldn’t be talked about so lightly. 

“...Don’t say that.” She mumbles, but the words come out clear. “...Don’t say something like that.”

Jinsol doesn’t speak. She only cups her reddening skin.

“Whether you like it or not, she saved me. And Yerim.” Jungeun looks up, steadies her gaze so Jinsol understands that such favours deserve to be rewarded. Not punished. “The least we can do is not let her bleed to death.”

She turns, heads for the wire tied around Sooyoung’s hands. 

Jungeun doesn’t hear any movement for a moment, wonders if maybe Jinsol had finally left her alone, but when Jinsol’s voice loops back into her ears, it’s with words she’s only ever had to face in her own head.

“...You actually care about her,” 

It’s not a question, so she doesn’t need to answer it.

Jungeun refuses to look at her, ignore it completely like it’d make the words disappear. She pretends it doesn’t make her heart quicken, prioritizes the knots around Sooyoung’s wrists, instead. 

Jinsol’s persistent. “...Are you in love with her?”

Her fingers freeze, a split-second too long that it wouldn’t surprise her if Jinsol noticed, before they’re moving again. 

She doesn’t know. It’s too early to say. Besides, she has better things to worry about— like her missing little girl, and making sure Sooyoung doesn’t take her last breath.

But her fingers tremble with a truth she’s been afraid of facing, knows that whatever it is she feels for Sooyoung, it’s enough to warrant a place in her heart. 

She refuses to give it a name, has yet to make peace with it. 

Now is _not_ the time.

“...Clean up and get dressed,” Jinsol’s voice breaks her thoughts, hears her move to settle beside her, nudges her elbow. “I got this.” 

Jungeun watches the way Jinsol plucks out a knife from her pocket, blade gnawing at the wire, hands calmer compared to her own. 

Reluctance is easy to see in Jinsol’s expression, but there’s a resigned smile on her lips, as if she already knows the answer to the question that somehow still lingers in the air.

Jinsol nudges her again.

“Go.” 

Jungeun mutters beneath her breath, lowers her head; hopes Jinsol can hear the weight of her heart on her lips. 

“...Thanks.” 

—

Everything hurts. 

She thought she’d be used to it by now, all things considered. 

“Oh good, you’re awake.” 

Yves didn’t think that voice would be the first thing she hears. She definitely didn’t think she’d be the first person she’d see, either.

Jinsol chuckles, speaks as if she’s read her mind. 

“Believe me, I’d rather not be here, either.” 

Yves grunts, feels something tighten around her side, registers the dull ache where the bullet used to be, and something larger.

“You must be made out of something else to still be alive,” Jinsol mumbles, almost lighthearted, like she doesn’t believe a thing she’s saying. “Did they train you to take this much damage and survive it?”

She doesn’t tell her that she’s right. About everything. 

Being genetically engineered has its perks; she’s stronger, faster — _better_ , than most. But not invincible.

Which also meant she was subjected to any and all sorts of testing, including finding out how much pain she can tolerate before it’s deemed too much. 

“I’m not doing this for you,” Yves’ eyes gradually adjust to the lighting, finally sees how Jinsol’s situated beside her, hands busy tying the wrap on her stomach. “Just so you know.” 

Yves says nothing. 

“You’re lucky Jungeun’s the way she is,” Jinsol tightens the knot, almost painfully too much, but Yves endures it; she’s already shown more than enough weakness by laying here. “Too nice for her own good.” 

It’s obvious how much Jinsol hates what she’s doing, a scowl drawn across her face — it looks permanent. 

Yves’ gaze wanders to the rest of the room decorated with white walls and a few beds; a makeshift hospital room made up of only the select few necessities. But it doesn’t carry any other patient except herself. 

Jinsol pats her side, harder than what’s deemed appropriate— as if to encourage breaking open the stitches she feels looped through her skin. Her heavy hands and rough handling show how indignant she is to be the one who had assisted her. 

That’s fine, Yves thinks. She doesn’t need more friends. 

Jungeun and Choerry are plenty enough. 

“Why haven’t you killed her?” Jinsol peels off her nitrile gloves, dumps it in a biohazard bag. “You had more than enough chances.” 

That’s not a question Yves’ willing to answer for anyone else but herself. 

“...Is Jungeun okay?” She croaks out instead, because that’s what’s actually important — not her motives.

Jinsol’s gaze is piercing, feels it burn against her cheek. Yves wishes she wasn’t lying down — it’d be easier to avoid meeting her eyes without making it obvious. 

“...She’s fine.” 

Reluctance oozes out of her lips, not at all subtle with the way her brows narrow, frown lining her mouth, like it hurts to tell her the truth. 

Yves’ just relieved Jungeun’s okay. 

“Can’t say the same for Yerim, though.” 

It’s instinctive, jolting up from the bed, feels the stitches stretch. The pain is nothing compared to the panic crawling through her throat.

“H-Hey! Be careful!” Jinsol’s pressing hands down her side, the gentlest she’s been. “You’re going to rip them open!” 

“Where—“ she grunts, hisses when Jinsol forces her back against the mattress. “—Where is she? What happened?” 

There’s a look on Jinsol’s face; mixture of confusion and something else — but Yves doesn’t care about discerning what it is. 

“ _Your_ people, happened.” Her voice is bitter, anger bubbling beneath. It’s no wonder Jinsol’s been less than welcoming about fixing her up — Yves would be too, if she were her. “Took her with them.” 

Yves knows exactly where they’d keep her. 

She shifts, attempts to rise again but Jinsol has strength in her grip. 

“You’re not going anywhere,” Jinsol huffs, eyeing the wraps. “Not until you’ve recovered enough to no longer make a mess on the floor.” 

Yves grits teeth. “That’s not important, I can—“ 

“Jungeun will have my head if I let you go, so no.” Jinsol chuckles, seemingly amused at how she stops the instant Jungeun is mentioned. “All it takes is saying the magic word, huh.” 

Was she actually _teasing_ her? 

It’s embarrassing, the way she feels warmth colour her face, her ears, her neck — hates how her body always gives her away.

Yves chooses to keep quiet. She doesn’t need her voice to further ruin her, too.

“...Yerim’s going to be fine, right?” Jinsol says, so unsure — and painfully hopeful. 

Yves doesn’t know why she’s not considering lying to her. Maybe it’s because she’s wishing for the same thing, too. 

She can’t promise her that. 

Jinsol appears to understand, her face crumbling to thin lips and creases between her brows.

Yves listens to the silence that follows, deafening and disheartening — but all she hears is the sound of Choerry’s sunshine laughter and purple letters. 

Her mind maps out all the possible entryways, counts the number of guards on patrol each shift, estimates the time needed to execute a successful retrieval and escape. 

The likelihood they both leave alive is low. 

“Is she awake!?” 

Yves’ gaze darts towards the door, finds Jungeun scrambling closer, relief relaxing the wrinkles on her forehead. 

Jinsol scoffs, stepping back so Jungeun can squeeze in by the bed.

“Obviously.” 

Memories flicker through her mind’s eye of the times she’d spot Choerry and Jungeun out in their yard, tending to the garden, their smiles blooming equally as colourful as the flowers under their fingertips. 

Yves’ eyes flutter close when Jungeun reaches out, brushes loose strands scattered across her brow.

Jungeun’s fingers cradle her cheek; too gentle, too soft, too sweet.

“How’re you feeling?” Jungeun asks, breathless like she’d been running her lungs empty with worry.

Yves wonders if Jungeun remembers they’re still not alone.

“I’m okay.” 

Nothing else matters as long as Choerry makes it home to Jungeun.

\--

“So, let me get this straight,” Jinsol starts, gestures to Yves. “You _think_ you know where they took her?” 

“I have several ideas, yes.” 

Jinsol snorts. “So you’re just guessing, then.” 

“Better than anything you could come up with,” Yves quips.

Jinsol scowls.

“Play nice,” Jungeun chuckles, nearing the coat rack. “It’s better than nothing.” 

“But it isn’t safe,” Jinsol says, raking fingers through her hair. “And if you really care about her,” she jabs a thumb in Jungeun’s direction, “you wouldn’t put her in any sort of danger.” 

Jungeun rubs her temples. “That’s not up to you, Sol.” 

Yves shares the same sentiments, preferring that Jungeun not be involved at all — keep her as far away as she could. 

But she knows she’s stubborn; nothing will satisfy her unless she gives her something. 

So, Yves will give her just that. 

“There’s a few abandoned silos and warehouses scattered outside the city,” Yves says, weaving lies with sprinkles of the truth. “They’re old facilities used as training grounds for new recruits. She’d be a great case to learn from.” 

“Learn from?” Jinsol parrots. 

Yves frowns. “I’m not spelling it out for you,”

She’d rather not say out loud with her mother present that her daughter would be the perfect target to helping erase whatever morals the initiates may have left.

Yves watches Jungeun stay silent, fiddling with the buttons on her broken jacket. 

“It’s too bad about your suit,” Jungeun says, switching topics entirely, her fingers dancing along the worn edges. “You look good in it.”

Yves hates the heat spreading up her neck, looking away and hoping to not show how flustered she’s become, only to be met with Jinsol’s teasing smile. 

She scowls. Jinsol doesn’t seem scared off at all, rolling her eyes.

“I’d give you a new one if I could, but I don’t think they’d appreciate lending anything more.” Jungeun wears an apologetic smile, hands patting the jacket as if to press down the wrinkles. “I’ll buy you a new suit, next time. Until then, I guess you’ll just have to deal with this one for a little longer.”

Jinsol’s Cheshire smile feels like the killing blow. “Pink looks good on you, Miss Lady Killer.” 

Yves groans, hiding behind her hand. 

—

Jinsol sighs. “Well. That was a thing.” 

Jungeun slides the door shut, arches a brow at Jinsol’s voice. 

She’d much prefer to stay with Sooyoung for a little longer, make sure she gets everything she needs, keep her company, but she’s still at work; it wouldn’t look good. 

Though her personal attachment isn’t much of a secret anymore considering her lack of inhibition to find Sooyoung and offer her help. 

She wouldn’t be surprised if her team has already started gossiping about her.

“What do you mean?” Jungeun says, heading to her office.

Sooyoung had given a list of Yerim’s potential whereabouts before exhaustion drew the curtains over her eyes; obscure locations in remote areas they’d never think to look.

She needs to dig further, pinpoint precisely where, and bring her little girl home.

Jungeun feels for her phone in her jacket pocket; at least she’s prepared.

“You and Miss Lady Killer,” Jinsol’s steps fall in tune with hers, “Seeing it up close— I don’t know, it’s...weird. Watching you two talk like that, almost like it’s natural.”

Jungeun frowns. “We’re not pretending, Sol.”

Not anymore, at least.

Jinsol doesn’t seem to know what to make of that, her face scrunching up, brows furrowed.

“I wish I could say I’m happy for you,” she pauses, “but I’m not. I’m sure you know why.” 

Jungeun doesn’t mind. It’s not something anyone else has to understand. She doesn’t need the approval. 

Vivi’s more adamant, though. 

“Whatever it is you and Yves are planning, you’re not going,” Vivi’s in her office, voice colder, absolute — it’s in the rigidity of her posture, the sharpness in her eyes that no one dares to argue. 

Except going to save Yerim isn’t something Jungeun should ever have to argue about — it will happen, whether Vivi likes it or not.

Jungeun wonders how many times it’ll take for her to understand that she’s not entertaining any other option. 

She rounds her desk, pulls out the spare gear in her drawer.

“It’s Yerim, Vivi.” Jungeun tightens the strap of her holster, loops a hair tie around strands of auburn. “No one is going to change my mind.” 

“Not even the fact that it’s a suicide mission?” 

“Nothing will scare me out of it,” 

“This isn’t just some simple retrieval, Jungeun.” Vivi’s crossing her arms, Jinsol quiet by the door. “They’ll be crawling with agents — let another team handle it. One with _actual_ expertise.” 

“You think I can’t do it?” 

“I _know_ you can’t.” 

Jungeun narrows her gaze, ignores the prickle of anger seeping up her stomach. 

She settles into her chair, pulls up her laptop; nothing will stop her from finding Yerim.

Vivi doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re too close to this to make any sound judgement on the field.” 

“The only decision I’ll be making is prioritizing Yerim.” Jungeun pauses, “That’s the most sound decision anyone could actually make.” 

“Which is the problem,” 

Jungeun’s gaze darts dangerously to meet Vivi’s. “Yerim isn’t the problem.” 

“You’re right. She isn’t.” Vivi flicks her hair back. “It’s you.” 

“I’m just doing my job—“ 

“Which I’ve already stated that you’re no longer a part of,”

“—as a _mother,_ ” Jungeun snaps, jaw clenched. 

Vivi stares for a moment, voice softer this time. 

“Exactly.” Her gaze loosens, gentler than the scowl she had on, before. “And I’m sure Yerim would want nothing more than for her mother to stay safe.” 

_(“I’ll protect you!”)_

Jungeun’s chest tremors at the memory, Yerim’s voice so clear in her head that it almost fools her into thinking she’s right here. 

The cold truth that she isn’t has Jungeun trembling, covering her face in her hands, attempting to swallow down the broken sob but it still manages to break through her lips. 

It doesn’t matter that her boss and friend can see her, hearing them scramble to her. 

They’ve already seen too much to judge, feeling their hands reach out to touch her — rubbing her shoulders and back. 

“Yerim doesn’t want anything else except to come home to a mother,” Vivi says, syllables tender; so rarely found on her tongue. “So make sure she still has you when she comes back, okay?” 

Jungeun has never felt as torn as she does now _._

Jinsol’s ruffling her hair. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll bring her home.”

—

Jinsol is an anomaly Yves’ not interested in figuring out. 

She’s somehow equally as complicated to understand as the feelings she has for Jungeun— which she still refuses to acknowledge, if only to maintain a semblance of control when Jungeun commands everything else: her thoughts, her nerves, her heart.

Jinsol walks in as if she’s trying to assert leadership, each footfall clicking with heavy strides and a sharp tongue. 

“For the record, I don’t like you.” 

But the only thing Yves is ever willing to follow is her gut. 

Yves arches a brow; she doesn’t respond, going back to fiddling with the buttons on her worn-out dress shirt. 

Jinsol scowls. “Stop acting all quiet and cool, it’s getting old. Look at me when I’m talking to you.” 

Yves lifts her gaze back to her, blinking. 

“Okay.” 

Jinsol groans, slapping a hand to her face, as if to hide away the flush growing on her cheeks. 

“...Don’t stare at me, either.” 

She gets scolded for not paying her any attention, but also lectured for giving it?

“You don’t want me to look at you, but you don’t want me to _not_ look at you, either.” Yves says, tilts her head. “I can’t do both.” 

Jinsol huffs, crossing her arms, mutters beneath her breath but with her standing by her bedside, it’s not hard to miss what she says.

“...Smartass.” 

Yves wonders how Jungeun can work with her. She’d go crazy just listening to instructions that don’t make sense.

“For the record,” Yves starts, juggling the words on her tongue, throwing it right back at her. “I don’t like you, either.”

Jinsol snorts. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Yves turns back to doing up the buttons on her shirt. 

She wonders how long she’s going to have to stay in a bed that offers no comfort when Choerry’s still missing. 

“Do you actually care?” Jinsol settles in the chair by the coffee table, pursed lips and furrowed brows greeting her. “About them?” 

Yves would rather be strapped to an electric chair than talk about the people who’ve burrowed their way into her heart and still refuses to leave.

Jinsol doesn’t seem surprised by her silence, continuing on as if the quiet was all she needed to hear. 

“Helping them doesn’t magically erase all the things you’ve done,” Jinsol pauses, “you’re still _you_.” 

Yves almost laughs. How funny.

“What makes you think I want to be anyone else but myself?” 

She nearly breaks into chuckles at Jinsol’s scrutiny. 

Yves leaves it at that, goes back to buttoning up the rest of her shirt, hiding away the bandages wrapped around her stomach. 

“...I’m taking Jungeun’s place,” Jinsol starts, continuing when Yves lifts her gaze to meet hers. “She’s not going on that rescue mission.” 

Yves knows why her heart drops in relief; knows why she’d rather have anyone else stand in on a suicide mission than have Jungeun be a part of it. 

She doesn’t dwell on what it means. 

“Good.” 

Jinsol tagging along instead sounds like a blessing in disguise.

Jinsol shifts in her seat, seemingly uncomfortable with their silence. Maybe she’s not used to all this quiet.

“You know what?” Jinsol says, rising to stand. “I’m going to go grab some coffee.” She pauses at the door. “And no, I’m not getting you any.” 

Yves snorts, watching Jinsol disappear behind it. 

—

Jungeun needed to get away for a bit; cool off the frustration and lingering guilt that she’s even considering Vivi’s idea. 

What kind of mother would she be if she doesn’t put in the effort to _try_? For Yerim?

“You really didn’t have to drive me home,” Jiwoo’s all smiling eyes despite the sling around her arm, “I could’ve just taken a cab.” 

Jungeun shakes her head, rolling to a stop in front of her one-storey house. “I just— I just wanted to make sure you get home safe. We both know how much I tend to worry.” 

“True. I bet you’d be pacing around your office and texting me every five minutes asking if I’m okay.” 

Jungeun just laughs. Her gaze flickers to the rear-view mirror, spots her two colleagues in a car a few feet away. 

“I’m sorry,” she pauses, scrambling for the right words to say. “About everything. You got hurt because of me and I hate the thought that you could’ve—“ 

“It’s not your fault I chose to tag along,” Jiwoo chuckles, gripping her wrist, squeezing gently. “Besides, I needed a little more excitement in my life, so thanks for that.” 

Jungeun snorts. 

“Honestly though,” Jiwoo starts, “do you like her? Your neighbour?” 

It’s obvious by how Jiwoo’s biting her lip that she’s holding herself from saying _killer._

She feels warmth begin to colour her ears, no doubt painting it a soft hue of pink. “...Yeah.” 

“And she likes you back?” 

“...I think so.” 

Jiwoo taps her chin, as if thinking. 

“She’s lucky she’s hot,” Jiwoo raises a hand, pointing a finger to the ceiling. “But being hotter than the sun doesn’t burn away her sins,” 

Jungeun furrows her brows. “...You’re not even religious,”

“...No, but my ex was, and she wouldn’t stop yapping about the invisible daddy and how we were sinning and going to hell.” 

“Yet she was your ex?” 

“She liked to peek out of the closet every once in a while.” 

Jiwoo always seems to know how to pull laughter out of her. 

Jiwoo pats her arm. “I know I sound like a broken record, and it’s ultimately your decision, so just...be careful, okay?”

Jungeun squeezes her hand.

  
“I know, and I will.” She gestures towards the two in the other car. “Now off you go. They’ll keep watch so if you need anything, they’ll be here.” 

Jiwoo’s pushing the door open, one leg out before she’s twisting to face her, holding her gaze. 

“Promise you’ll stay safe?” 

They both know that isn’t something she could truly keep; not when there’s so much at stake. 

Jungeun pushes Jiwoo’s forehead with a finger, grins at the sound of her whining.

“I promise.” 

—

Jungeun’s in the middle of removing her gear, reluctant to stay, but understanding that maybe this is the wiser choice — be the reason why Yerim would be looking forward to coming home. 

But in the back of her mind, scratching at the corners like there’s an itch she can’t reach, Jungeun thinks — _why not be the reason she gets to come back home in the first place?_

She hesitates when she circles back to her desk, stares at the framed picture of Yerim’s giant smile beaming back at her. 

Jungeun remembers when she had taken it; Yerim had run up to her to show off her first successful paper airplane that had taken flight. 

_(“Mommy, did you see that?! It flew!”_

_“Of course,” Jungeun had lifted her camera, wanting to capture the perfect image of Yerim with the park as her backdrop. “I knew you could do it.”_

_Yerim had grinned as soon as she saw what she was doing, posing with her purple paper airplane._

_Jungeun made sure not to miss out on it._

_“Hurry and take a picture, mommy! I want to make it fly, again!”_

_She laughed, her heart in her voice._

_Click.)_

Doubt worms its way through her head. She knows her team can handle it, but who else would always put Yerim first, except herself?

It’s more reassuring to know she’s getting the job done; knows that this way, she’d be doing everything she can to bring her back home.

Jungeun jumps at the sound of her phone, lifting to stare at the screen, a private number glowing back at her. 

She has a nagging suspicion that she knows exactly who it is.

Jungeun taps it open.

“What do you want _now?_ ” 

It’s the first time she hears Haseul laugh— and she already doesn’t like it.

She needs to get a new phone number.

_“Greetings to you too, Jungeun. Getting tired of my calls? Yves likes receiving them, you know.”_

Jungeun pretends not to hear the implication, knows Sooyoung’s high kill count calls for a sentence without mercy — one Jungeun continues to ignore completely. 

But grey has always been Jungeun’s life colour, anyway. What difference does one more splotch of imperfection make?

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Jungeun goes back to readjusting her holster, hooks it back on; she’s made up her mind. “What do you want?”

_“Sooyoung needs to leave,”_ it sounds grim, voice lowering to a whisper. _“Now.”_

Jungeun frowns. 

She doesn’t question the fact that Haseul knows Sooyoung’s real name (they work together — it would be a shared secret kept between partners), or that she knows where Sooyoung is. 

She always seems to figure it out, one way or another. 

“She needs to rest,”

_“Cute,”_ it’s sarcastic, not at all impressed. _“Then I suppose you wouldn’t mind having the ICA personally put her to sleep, do you?”_

Jungeun’s fingers pause around the latch. Her mind spins in alert. 

If she could see her now, she’d likely spot Haseul smiling. 

_“Didn’t think so.”_ Smug.

Jungeun’s voice lowers. “Are you saying they’re here?”

_“Not yet. Hopefully.”_ The sound of heels click in the background; echoes as if Haseul’s walking down a hallway. Clack. Clack. Clack. _“But they will be.”_

“Our security is tight,” There are cameras at every point — guards stationed, always ready to act. “They can’t come in without alerting the entire building.” 

_“Oh? Then where’s the welcoming committee?”_

Jungeun freezes. “What?” 

_“You make it sound like it’s hard to get in,”_ Haseul’s clearly trying not to laugh any harder than she already is, chuckles leaving her lips. _“So why am I already here?”_

Jungeun wastes no time dashing out of her office, sprinting for the security room; finding it empty. 

The sight only makes her heart quicken.

She flits through the cameras until she finds Haseul on screen — phone to her ear, pocketing a worn out envelope into her jacket, walking down the corridor towards the nursing unit.

How did she—? 

_“I’m only a Handler, Jungeun.”_ Haseul’s gaze flickers to the camera, as if she knew she was watching. _“Imagine what a trained ICA field agent can do.”_

The thought fills her with dread.

It clicks. “Kim Hyunjin died this way, didn’t she.” 

Haseul’s silence is deafening, made more obvious by the clacking echoes of her heels. Jungeun doesn’t need any more confirmation than that.

Haseul carries on like there wasn’t a lull in their conversation. _“So, are you willing to lend me a hand?”_

Jungeun flicks the switches, maneuvers each camera to follow Haseul and Sooyoung’s route to escape.

“Only for _her,_ ” 

She hears Haseul snicker. _“Was there ever any doubt?”_

—

Haseul walking through the doors like she has always been here shouldn’t have been a surprise.

She can get in anywhere as long as she wants to. 

“Haseul?” 

“You’ve looked better,” Haseul greets her with teeth and a laugh, “a little rough around the edges, but other than that, not too shabby — for a woman sporting a gunshot wound and remnants of a car crash.”

Yves won’t admit that she missed Haseul’s witty tongue; nothing else compares. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“What does it look like?” Haseul approaches her bedside, nods her head towards the door. “Keeping you alive. Now let’s go.” 

“How did you handle the guards?” 

“Security seems pretty lax,” Haseul laughs, dusting her sleeve. “All it took was looking lost with a pretty smile and a taser.”

Yves rises from the mattress, feels her wounds ache — but they’re dull compared to before, and not as paralyzing. 

Haseul’s hand circles her elbow. “They couldn’t even spare you a new shirt?” 

Yves scoffs. “Did you think they would?” 

“I figured your girlfriend would, at least.” 

Yves chokes out a cough, hates how warm her cheeks feel; how even her ears betray her, no doubt colouring her skin in crimson so obvious that it has Haseul grinning at her like a madwoman. 

“...Not a girlfriend,” she pauses, “and she tried. They just didn’t want to make more exceptions than they already have.” 

A bed and proper treatment are more than enough, anyway. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” Haseul guides her out of bed, fingers warm against Yves’ back. “If I had known, I’d have brought you a new set. One that might’ve kept your girlfriend’s jaw on the floor, too.”

Yves doesn’t bother entertaining her Cheshire smile and sly tongue. 

“How did you get in, anyway?” Yves straightens up, going for her jacket hanging on the coat rack. “You shouldn’t be on the field — it isn’t safe.” 

“How sweet of you, but I had a little side job of my own.” Haseul doesn’t elaborate, crossing her arms; her gaze shifting to the door. “Now it’s your turn.” 

Yves arches a brow, arms halfway through the sleeves of her battered jacket. It’s worn and no doubt worse for wear, but it’s still an additional layer of defence. 

“You didn’t plan an escape?” 

“I did,” Haseul grins, cheeky. “You.” 

Yves rolls her eyes. Of course. 

“Just—“ she’s not used to having another shadow and being the protector; she thought leading Choerry and Jungeun would be the last of it. “Stay close.” 

Haseul’s smile is easy to hear. “Wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.” 

She takes it back; she doesn’t miss Haseul’s flirtatious tongue. 

“You’re even worse in person.”

—

Yves isn’t used to sparing so many lives, much less all in one night — and for the same reason. 

“You’re making this unnecessarily harder on yourself,” Haseul says once Yves puts down another guard who’s knocked out cold, settling him against the wall. “Are you sure you can keep this up?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Yves walks forward, peeks around the corner before ushering Haseul to follow along. “I’m not killing them.” 

“Softie,” there she goes, again.

“Whatever.”

Yves knows she doesn’t have to do any of this; she’s not the type to care about moral obligations, but they’re Jungeun’s coworkers — by extension, she’d be hurting Jungeun, too.

“It’s awfully quiet,” Haseul starts, her steps in tune with hers. “You know, the kind of quiet where ICA operatives have already broken in.” 

Yves wonders if Haseul wants to jinx them on purpose, her words barely leaving her lips before she hears it — several footsteps echoing across the halls. 

She arches a brow at her, ignores the itch to roll her eyes when Haseul shrugs, sheepish. 

“I guess I spoke too soon?” 

Yves yanks her in so she’s behind her, finds some satisfaction in watching her nearly trip, hearing her yelp.

“Just stay out of the way,”

Yves crouches by the corner, springing up to disarm as soon as one hitman comes running by, gripping his arm and twists, sweeping a foot under his leg and using his momentum for a throw, knock him off balance. 

She yanks back his arm, _crack_ , his scream piercing enough to call for more before stomping on his neck. She feels bones snap beneath her foot. 

The next one goes down just as quickly, dodging his fist and slamming her elbow against his face, not letting him stumble away before she’s launching after him, grabbing his wrist and hooking her foot behind his leg, making him fall to his knees.

She leaps to seize his neck between her legs, spinning and rolling until they tumble to the floor, locking him in, and twists. It never fails to satisfy her — the way limbs just _crack._

“Tired?” Haseul comes up beside her as she stands, dusts off lint from her sleeves.

Yves keeps moving. “No,”

More assassins arrive, as expected. But this time, they’re stuck in the middle of the hallway, cornered at both ends. 

It’d be a lot less exhausting if she had a gun.

“Oh right, before I forget.” Haseul’s voice is eerily amused despite their current predicament, rummaging through the inside of her suit jacket. “I think you’ll need this.”

Yves stares at the handgun, contemplates whether she’d really be losing anything if Haseul is the first one she shoots. 

Haseul dares to laugh, even throwing in a wink. “You can thank me, later.”

Yves doesn’t waste anymore time, sweeping her hand across to grip the pistol, switching off the safety and cocking the gun before taking aim and firing at the closest hitman in one fluid motion — then two, and three.

She shoves Haseul to safety just as shots ring out behind them, follows her in the narrow space, finding joy in Haseul’s sour expression and stumbling feet up close, satisfied in breaking her poised grace. 

It doesn’t last long.

Haseul’s breath flutters against her jaw. “Does Jungeun know you like it rough?” 

Yves scowls, ignores the heat burning up her ears, turning away from Haseul’s impish grin, feeling her laughter tickle her neck. 

She listens to the sound of footsteps, tugs Haseul down with her, pressing against the wall— and waits. 

Yves shoots the moment a gun peeks past, watches it fly out of the woman’s hand before launching herself forward, firing another bullet to her temple before catching the assassin’s body to use as a shield. 

The flurry of shots that comes is predictable and sloppy; Yves aims over the dead’s shoulder, pulling the trigger and watching the last agent drop, the bullet lodged in his forehead. 

She lets the woman go, watches her fall, red spreading beneath her. 

Haseul walks up to her, pride in her eyes. “Never thought I’d get to see up close what I’ve been used to hearing through an earpiece most of my life. You’re just as good as I imagined you’d be.”

“You’ve seen me in action, before.” 

“On screen,” Haseul pauses, “And when you were still at the training centre, but that was a long time ago.” 

There’s a fond smile on her lips, softer than the words on her tongue; a rarity Yves didn’t think Haseul could even have. 

“You’re not hurt anywhere, are you?” Yves says instead, unsure of how to continue the nostalgic warmth Haseul radiates. 

“Besides a wrinkled suit and a sore back?” Haseul’s all witty syllables and laughing eyes, her fingers curling around Yves’ arm, squeezing gently. “Then no, I’m fine. Thank you, Sooyoung.” 

Yves nods, leads Haseul through the corridor, makes sure she stays right behind her. 

When they come across the elevator, it’s no surprise it requires a keycard; the stairs equally blocked off. 

“Thankfully I’ve got some help,” Haseul says, waving at a camera situated above them. 

Yves arches a brow, watching the lock turn from red to green, the doors sliding open. 

“Who?” 

“Your girlfriend,” 

“She’s not my—“ 

“You should say thank you,” Haseul grins, slipping into the elevator. “I’m sure she’d appreciate it.” 

Yves flushes, knows that Haseul’s probably half kidding, which means half of it is the truth, and she doesn’t know how to show appreciation when there’s an audience.

She glances up at the camera, hopes it’s enough for Jungeun to understand, before settling beside Haseul in the elevator.

—

If Vivi knew she’d just helped their enemy escape, she’d never hear the end of it. That is, if she even gets to survive long enough to have Vivi scold her for it.

Jungeun flickers through the monitors, tries to find the rest of her colleagues, spotting Jinsol carrying two drinks down the west wing, Vivi pacing around in her office. 

She looks troubled, biting her nail. Weird. 

Vivi doesn’t get nervous. 

Jungeun glances at the screens one more time; Sooyoung and Haseul won’t need her for the rest of the way when she’s already unlocked all the other doors. 

She leaves to find Vivi still pacing in her office, a cassette player with one tape labelled: “For Kahei” on her desk. 

Jungeun wonders why it has Vivi uncharacteristically fidgety, trying to ease the mood. 

“It’s been awhile since I’ve last seen one.” She frowns at the silence, Vivi flaring up the longer she stares at it. “Vivi?” 

“That _asshole,_ ” Vivi’s stomping towards her desk, fingers seemingly itching to crush the cassette player in her hand. “Of course she’d leave something like this.”

“Who?” 

Vivi massages her eyes, a sigh leaving her lips, heavy with a weight that pulls down even her shoulders. 

She hits play.

Jungeun’s eyes widen at the sound of a voice she’s just gotten used to hearing.

_“Greetings, Kahei.”_

Haseul?

Why would Vivi even know someone like her?

_“If you’re listening to this, then that means the score is now 2 - 3; you’re starting to lag behind. I’ve erased the remaining files you’ve had of the ICA. Including all backups.”_ Giggles crackle from the recording, _“But don’t worry, I made sure to leave a little something for you. My voice.”_

It’s borderline condescending— Jungeun’s surprised Vivi hasn’t already flung it out the window. 

_“Replay this tape whenever you feel lonely.”_

That’s all it takes for Vivi to finally sling the entire cassette player against the wall, watch it break open; bits and pieces of its parts flying and scattering across the floor. 

Jungeun can’t blame her. 

“Who was that?” 

She’d rather not have to explain knowing Haseul’s name — especially with anger still running through Vivi’s skin, fuming the redness in her face. 

“I mentioned her once, before.” She pauses, bites her lip. Vivi doesn’t sound proud of it. “She’s six feet and three inches of arrogance over my head.” 

Her mind reels at the information, questions plaguing her thoughts. How did they even meet? When did that happen? And how come she’s never said _anything—_

Vivi chuckles, like she recognizes the curiosity in Jungeun’s stunned silence.

“Let’s just say I had too much to drink, and so did she.” She pauses, as if pondering the next few words. “Why do you think I ask you to come with me whenever I go out drinking, now? It’s so I don’t make the same mistake, twice.”

Jungeun can’t believe it.

Vivi laughs again; a little louder, this time. “She’s a good kisser, I’ll give her that much.” 

Jungeun’s mortified. “Vivi! I don’t need to know the _details_ —!” 

“Just not as good as me.” Vivi finishes, before turning towards the door, ushers with a nod of her head. “Now let’s go find Jinsol; I have a feeling Miss Lady Killer’s not sticking around any longer.” 

Jungeun swallows down the slight guilt wringing her throat, knows Vivi wouldn’t appreciate being stabbed in the back, following her out. 

What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

—

Yves has killed enough times with a fiber wire to recognize the stealth kill, hears something shatter, the sound of someone choking slithering into her ears.

She dashes for it.

“Sooyoung?!” Haseul shouts, her steps trickling after her.

Yves rounds the corner until they come into view, pulling the trigger when she finds Jinsol struggling to breathe, hands desperately clutching to yank death’s string from her neck. 

The assassin drops, shoved away by Jinsol’s frantic fingers, watching her cough, gasping for air; the wire falls from her shoulders. 

Yves doesn’t know why she reaches out, offering her hand, but she doesn’t regret it when Jinsol’s fingers grip her skin. 

She guides her up, spotting the fresh mark line Jinsol’s neck; she’s lucky the cut is shallow.

“...Thanks,” Jinsol manages to squeeze in between another bout of coughs. “Sorry about the coffee.” 

Yves’ gaze travels to the floor, finally noticing the pieces of porcelain surrounded in brown liquid pooling beneath her feet. 

She arches a brow at the sight of two broken mugs. 

“You got me one?” 

Jinsol chokes out a noise; something between a timid laugh and a flustered squeak, coughing behind her hand. 

“...Surprised?” 

Yves can’t help the honesty. “Yes.” 

“Yeah, well.” Jinsol straightens up, rubbing at her neck, scraping away tiny bits of blood. “Me, too.” 

It’s in the middle of their silence that Yves realizes they’re still holding hands. 

She turns away, letting go to find Haseul’s eyes gleaming with curiosity, a sly smile creeping up her lips.

Yves rolls her eyes, moving forward. “Don’t even start.” 

Haseul giggles, shrugging, before following her lead again. 

But it’s when Yves hears more than just their two sets of footfalls that she looks back to find Jinsol trailing closely behind.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” 

Jinsol looks sheepish, tucking her hair behind her ear. 

“Yeah, but — um, let’s be honest: I have a higher chance of staying alive with you than I would if I went off on my own.” Yves halts, about to protest, but Jinsol raises a hand. “And no, I’m not looking for your permission; I’m tagging along, whether you like it or not.” 

This time, Haseul laughs out loud. “I like her.” 

Yves doesn’t know how to feel about this. But knowing she’s a friend of Jungeun’s makes the decision obvious. 

“Fine.” She says before moving forward, Haseul and Jinsol keeping up beside her.

She wonders what Jungeun would say if she saw them like this; a ragtag group of people coming together for safety.

“I’m Haseul, by the way.” 

“Jinsol,” 

Yves wants to say something, tell them they have more important things to worry about than getting to know each other, but Haseul’s clearly invested in spilling secrets that should be kept _secret_. 

“So, did you like the bird pictures?” 

Jinsol’s shock is easy to hear, floundering to keep up with their pace. “That was _you?!_ ” 

Yves turns, scolding. “Haseul!” 

“What? They’re taking a long time trying to figure it out, so I’m just helping.” 

“With the _answer?!_ ” 

Haseul shrugs. “So I’m impatient. Sue me.” 

Jinsol’s stuttering brings Yves back to attention, finds her eyes gleaming with — appreciation?

“That was brilliant! I didn’t know you could even do that!” Jinsol’s rambling, hands gesturing wildly. “I mean, sure, that was bad for us, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be fascinated by it. Tell me, how’d you do it?!” 

Yves hates being in the middle, feeling Jinsol lean in closer, shoulders brushing. 

She jogs faster so the two can geek it out from behind. 

“So you’re the tech nerd, huh.” Yves says over her shoulder. “Makes sense.” 

Jinsol scoffs. 

“Hey, I get to go on the field every once in a while, and I’m pretty good at it. Just not as good as Jungeun, but still.” She pauses, sounding smug. “I managed to fool you, didn’t I?” 

Yves hates the way Haseul cackles, clearly enjoying every minute of their back-and-forth banter where she isn’t the only one with a witty tongue.

If the opportunity ever presents itself, Yves isn’t going to bother saving Jinsol twice.

She’ll just tell Jungeun it was an accident.

“I can hear your brain plotting something, Miss Lady Killer.” Jinsol’s eerily observant, feels her tap her back as if they were already close enough to be friendly. “Do anything funny to me and I’m going to tell Jungeun.” 

Yves doesn’t entertain her petty threat with anything else but a snort. 

—

Jungeun expects that Sooyoung would’ve already been long gone by the time they started locking the building down, her agency already alerted about the ICA operatives and their assassination attempt. 

But here Sooyoung is, with Haseul and _Jinsol,_ of all people, across her at the end of the hall, Vivi’s tactical unit already taking aim beside her. Jungeun has half a mind to get them to lower their weapons, but she doesn’t have that type of authority.

Jungeun almost yells at them to run, biting her tongue when Vivi steps forward.

“You’re not going anywhere,” 

Haseul grins, waving from behind Sooyoung. “Don’t you get tired of always asking me to stay, Kahei?” 

Jungeun has to grip Vivi back from charging in, knows that Haseul is probably riling her up as a distraction. 

She looks to Jinsol, sees her juggling between staying where she is, and rejoining with her actual team, eyes darting back and forth. 

But the moment she leaves, there wouldn’t be a reason not to shoot. 

Sooyoung seems to have come up with the same conclusion, yanking Jinsol closer, the end of her gun pressed against Jinsol’s temple. 

“Woah, hey, easy!” Jinsol yelps.

Sooyoung’s voice leaves no room for compromise. “Move, and I’ll shoot.” 

Jungeun briefly wonders if she means it, knowing that Sooyoung’s mercy is exclusive, scouring for another option, one where neither side has to pull the trigger, staring up at the lights above them. 

She slowly steps backwards. 

“We’ve already chosen to spare you, Yves.” Vivi starts, “So why run?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Haseul answers in her stead, brushing her hair back. “You’re not the ones we’re worried about.” 

“We can handle the rest,” Vivi crosses her arms, tilts her head. “So stand down.” 

Jungeun doesn’t make it very far before another opportunity comes up — one she’s half thankful for and half worried that things could go wrong. 

“Duck!” Jungeun shouts, raises her pistol, aims where Sooyoung is, and fires. 

Sooyoung is quick on her feet, dragging Jinsol down with her, Haseul following after, the bullet piercing the hitman behind them. 

That’s all it takes to set things in motion, agents scattering to close the distance, fire at the ICA operatives spilling in from every corner. 

Jungeun can’t keep track of where Sooyoung has gone, disappearing as fast as the chaos that erupts, prioritizing herself when one assassin gets too close. 

“Why am I not surprised?” Vivi’s comment is thrown over her shoulder, paired with a sickening crack of her foot meeting a hitman’s head. 

Her gaze is scorching against Jungeun’s cheek.

Jungeun ignores her; she trusts Sooyoung to stay alive and keep Jinsol safe, escape with her. It doesn’t matter if she’s painted as a traitor — she’s not going to lose anyone. 

—

Yves never thought she’d be leaving Jungeun behind to take Jinsol with her, instead. She has half a mind to turn back and help, make sure Jungeun’s life extends well past her own. 

“Over there!” 

Haseul’s leading them to a car looking battered with a chipped paint job and a cracked window. 

Yves slips into the driver’s seat, Haseul reserving the passenger’s. 

“You’re still here?” Yves asks, scowling at the rear-view mirror.

She watches Jinsol roll her eyes at her, clambering into the backseat. “You’re still my responsibility, you know. I can’t just let you go.” 

Yves snorts. Jinsol makes it sound like she’s got her captive when it should be the other way around. 

She shifts it to drive, knows that she can’t worry about anything else just yet until they’re far enough to prioritize something else — and not their lives. 

Haseul’s pulling up her laptop from the glove compartment, brushing her hair back. 

“Okay, I’ve already booked a flight for you to Moscow. Lay low until this blows over — spend all that money you’ve saved on new hobbies or something. Just stay invisible and you’ll be fine.” 

Jinsol jumps in between them, her hands gripping the sides of their seats. “Hey, wait — you’re not actually _escaping_ , are you? That’s not part of the deal!” 

Yves grips the wheel, hears how Haseul scoffs, rambling on. 

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but whatever Yves has settled with your team, it’s null.” 

“That’s—“

Haseul plows on, dismisses anything that Jinsol says, no matter how much she protests.

“I’ll keep Olivia Hye off your trail, get her to take on missions away from your location; make her think you’re someplace else. It shouldn’t be too hard.” 

Haseul hands her a passport, along with a new phone, gripping her free arm; Yves’ surprised at her hold, firm and reassuring.

It sounds like a promise. “I’ll make sure they never find you.” 

A short glance is one too many, the sincerity in Haseul’s eyes carrying more than she can handle; Yves keeps her focus on the road so she won’t see the inevitable disappointment.

Escaping is the last thing on her mind.

“Haseul,” the quiet that comes after is almost enough to have Yves look back, “I’m sorry.”

It’s obvious in her grip, how it loosens, before tightening, the disbelief laced in Haseul’s voice. 

“No. Whatever you’re thinking, you’re not doing it, Sooyoung.” Haseul huffs, her real name out in the air as if forgetting they’re not the only ones in the car. “I’m not letting you waste all the effort I’ve put in.” 

“I’m bringing her home, Haseul.” 

If she starts now, she’ll probably make it before the sun gets to rise.

It isn’t hard to miss how silent Jinsol’s gotten.

Anger seems to be simmering in Haseul’s voice. “You’re hammering a _nail_ in your coffin,” 

“Choerry’s just a kid—“ 

“Exactly. _Just_ a kid. And you’ve only known her for what, a few months? Is that amount worth more than your life?” Haseul’s gritting teeth, “Do you _want_ to get yourself killed?” 

Yves’ jaw clenches. “I’m not leaving Choerry behind.” 

“Like what you should’ve done with Olivia?” 

She doesn’t respond, refuses to look at Haseul who already knows the answer. 

She stalls off to the side, right before the intersection leading to a highway; she can’t keep her attention on the road when Haseul’s stealing all of it.  
  


Haseul sighs. “If I had known you were looking to die, I would’ve just left you there.” 

Yves chuckles, hearing Jinsol snort from the back— guess she wasn’t the only one who thought it was funny. 

Haseul stretches her fingers before flipping open her laptop, shoving the passport and cellphone into her pocket.

“The only way you’ll come out of it alive is if I go with you.”   
  


Yves jerks up. “Haseul—“

“No,” 

“I don’t need your help,”   
  


“But you do need my eyes,” Haseul quips, “you’re too often on the field to remember the layout like I do.”   
  


“I grew up there,” Yves meets Haseul’s knowing gaze. “I’ll manage.” 

ICA training centres are all over the world, but they seem to lack creativity when it comes to designing them. Memorize one layout, and you’ve managed to draw up a blueprint for all of them.

It isn’t smart, but it does seem to show their confidence in handling intruders — and usually there weren’t any. 

“Sooyoung—“ 

“I’ve compromised you enough,” Yves leans back, combs fingers through her hair. “I don’t want you to be on the run, too.” 

“You know me,” Haseul’s smile is disarming, “I always have strings to pull.” 

“Haseul—“ 

“I told you, didn’t I? I’m here to keep you alive.” It’s unwarranted, Yves thinks, the kindness she offers. She hasn’t done anything to deserve it. “Part of my job is making sure you have everything you need. I’m your Handler, after all.”  
  


Yves watches the way Haseul’s smile grows wider, and genuine.   
  


Haseul bumps her elbow. “So let me be your Handler, all right?”

It’s sweet, and warm; so far from the bitterness and cold they’ve gotten used to achieving together, fingers soiled with too much red that it’s something they can’t ever wash off. 

Yves isn’t adding Haseul’s blood to her hands, too.

“Have I ever failed you?” 

Haseul’s brows furrow. “What? Of course not. I don’t think you even could.” 

“Then it’s about time I did.” 

Before Haseul could get another word in, Yves jabs a fist to her mouth, splits Haseul’s lip, following up with a strike against Haseul’s chest, watches the air leave in a choked breath. 

She slams Haseul’s forehead against the glove compartment, hard enough to bruise, and watches her crumple, catching her to have her slump against the seat, out cold. 

Jinsol’s shriek reminds her that she’s not alone.

“What the hell did you just _do?!_ ” 

She tucks a strand of brown behind Haseul’s ear, mumbles her apology even though she knows Haseul can’t hear it.

She’ll probably never forgive her for this. 

“What I had to do.” 

“Did you kill her?!”

“Of course not,” 

Jinsol throws her hands up, sees from the rear-view mirror how she slumps back, as if she’s given up. 

“You’re insane! Why is everyone insane?!” 

Yves ignores her, drives off to the one other person she could trust, a tiny house next to a lake, hidden away between towering trees and one broken stop sign. 

She’s not worried about Jinsol knowing her location; Chaewon has nothing to hide — at least, not officially.

When Chaewon opens the door, she doesn’t look impressed, brow arching, judgment palpable on her lips. 

“...Seriously?” 

Yves steps inside, Haseul breathing softly in her arms, Jinsol trailing behind. 

She hears Jinsol mumble “sorry to intrude” before sticking closer, feels her grip the end of her jacket, as if Chaewon’s glare could rip her away.

Yves sets her down on the sofa knowing Chaewon would complain, but always gives in. 

“Take care of her for me,” 

“Feels like déjà vu,” Chaewon says, scrutinizing Haseul. “I thought Hyejoo would be the first — and _last,_ time.”

Saving Hyejoo from a burning building is one of her most selfish — and according to Chaewon, _selfless_ , acts that she’d much prefer never to replicate, again.

“This will be it,” Yves pretends not to feel the fire scorching the side of her head, Chaewon’s gaze equally as blazing as Haseul’s— when she was awake. “I promise.” 

Chaewon seems to understand what she’s implying, crossing her arms. 

She doesn’t acknowledge Jinsol; probably doesn’t want to involve herself any more than necessary.

“She’s going to be furious when she wakes up, you know.” 

“I know,” Yves says, dusting off her sleeves. “Tell her I’m sorry, and that those bruises should be convincing enough for the ICA.” 

Chaewon scoffs. “Tell her yourself,” 

Yves pretends she doesn’t hear it, tries to memorize the slopes of Chaewon’s brows, the resignation in her eyes. 

Has Chaewon always been this tall? She thought she was shorter. 

She should’ve taken the time to visit her friend more often.

“Just because I’m a cleaner, it doesn’t mean I’m going to keep cleaning up after you.” Chaewon nudges her elbow, sees the way her lips curve into a smile. “I hate hearing complaints. Why do you think I prefer them dead?”

“Don’t worry,” Yves nudges her back, before turning towards the door, continuing her goodbye over her shoulder, Jinsol not far behind. “You won’t have to pick up after me, anymore.”

Chaewon’s yell manages to slip into her ears before the door clicks shut. “You better not come back in a body bag because I’m not cleaning you!”

It’s only when they’re in the car again, Jinsol taking Haseul’s spot in the passenger seat, that she finally speaks. 

“...You’re actually doing this,” Jinsol’s syllables are laced with awe and disbelief — even her eyes take on a similar hue, one Yves would like to erase.

Yves doesn’t know why she’s still sticking around. “You should go,” 

“Hey, none of that. I’m coming, too.” 

“You’ll just slow me down,” 

“Yerim’s just as important to me, okay?” Jinsol turns in her seat, faces Yves completely. “I mean, sure, she’s a little brat who smiles a little too much sometimes, and I haven’t spent much time with her either, only just got ordered around, really, but she’s a good kid.” 

“Then let me do this on my own,” 

“Jungeun would never let me hear the end of it if she knew I left you alone,” 

“Then tell her you didn’t,” she turns the ignition on, gripping the gear. “Tell her I forced you to go. Attacked you. Whatever.” 

“No,” as if to prove a point, Jinsol straps herself in, seatbelt clicking loudly— like hammering the final nail into her head, petulant and childish.

Yves scowls. “On one condition: give up your phone.”

“What? Why?” 

Yves recalls Jungeun’s broken cellphone; how her team followed not long after. She’s not about to let herself get tracked. 

“The point is to keep Jungeun out of this and bring Choerry back home.” She pauses, “So either you leave _now,_ or be dumb enough to come with — _without_ that phone.” 

Jinsol bites the inside of her cheek, brows scrunched. 

Maybe a little nudge will convince her out of this, entirely. “You don’t even _like_ me,” 

Jinsol rolls her eyes. “I don’t,” 

“Then why are you still here?” 

“I’m here for Jungeun, not for you.” Jinsol crosses her arms, sinks back into her seat, like it’ll keep her locked in better. “Jungeun would want me to keep you from doing anything stupid. So, I’m going to make sure you don’t.” 

Yves swallows down the surprise as Jinsol rummages through her pocket, passing over her cellphone without another word.

She’s not sure if she should label her an idiot, or a loyal friend. 

Jinsol knows she’s not planning to get out of this alive. 

Her words imply a truth Yves’ afraid of deciphering, recognizes the underlying secrets Jinsol’s not saying out loud. 

The fact that Jinsol knows they’re more than just friends, teetering between two ends like a circus act on a string, making sure it lasts— for whatever reason, is almost overwhelming.

Yves takes it, flinging it out the window, before pulling the gear to drive. 

Guess she’ll just have to make sure Jinsol makes it back home, too.

—

“What the hell was _that?!_ ” 

Jungeun’s not surprised that Vivi’s keen on coming after her, hears her footsteps trailing closely behind. 

Yerim is the only one on her mind — and the reason she’s not afraid of getting fired for. 

She pulls her car keys from her pocket, pressing down to unlock the door — she has no time to waste quibbling on things Vivi should already know. 

Besides, doesn’t she have an agency to help run? There’s still a mess to clean up at the office.

Vivi slams the door shut as soon as Jungeun pulls it open, leaning in, jaw clenched.

“Listen to me. You’re lucky the squad had ICA agents to worry about, but you’re treading on thin ice helping them escape.” 

Jungeun scowls. “I don’t care,” 

“Not even the fact that Jinsol’s still missing? Likely with them?”

“She’ll be fine,”

Vivi seems to seethe at that answer, steam blowing under the skin on her cheeks, shading it a pink hue. 

“You think Yves isn’t going to utilize this opportunity to escape?” A pause, “And I mean, _really_ , escape — forever?”

Jungeun rakes fingers through her hair, feels frustration boil in her bones; they’re wasting _time._

“I trust her,” 

Vivi scoffs, throws her hands up. “How sweet. It’s too bad I can’t say the same for you.” 

Jungeun doesn’t let it get to her, tries to go for the car handle but Vivi intercepts, slapping it away. 

“Vivi!” 

“You’re not even _listening_ to me!” 

“Because we’ve already had this conversation!” 

“No, we haven’t.” Vivi jabs a finger to Jungeun’s chest, “you didn’t hear me the first time, and now you’re not hearing me _again._ What are you doing?” 

Jungeun shoves her away the second she prods her chest again, emboldened by the fury of time being taken away from her with every moment spent arguing here instead of putting on the miles in her car tank. 

“I’m going to get Yerim,” 

“How do you even know that the coordinates she gave you were right?” Vivi’s hands move, not as wild to be considered flailing, but enough to show her concerns. “What if she lied and they’re all just dead-ends?” 

Jungeun scoffs, pulling out her phone. “That’s what I’m counting on,” 

Vivi halts, eyes widening. “When did you…?”

Jungeun flicks through the menus, a pop up with two red blips blinking on the screen— one of them continues to move North. 

She doesn’t miss how Jinsol’s tracker remains stationary.

“When I went to check up on Yves, I bugged her jacket. Just in case.” She says, shoving it back into her pocket. “And from the looks of it, I was right to be ready.”

“And yet you still trust her,” 

“She cares about Yerim; I trust that.” Jungeun pauses, “I also knew to trust that she probably doesn’t want me getting involved, either.” 

“...Why am I not surprised.” 

Jungeun steps forward, motioning for the car door again. “So I’m going, whether you like it, or not.” 

“Alone?”

“I— what?” 

“There’s no point in telling you not to go,” Vivi’s lips thin to a line, “I know that. What I’ve been trying to say is to not go _alone._ ” 

“Then—“

“And to be more careful about these feelings,” Vivi arches a brow, eyes critical. “It’s not hard to see when you debated about why we shouldn’t withhold treatment from her; that was more than telling— besides the obvious.”

Jungeun stammers. “That’s...“ 

Vivi holds up a hand. “Save your breath, I’ll have a squad follow after you to provide backup; once Yerim’s retrieval is a success, we’re taking Yves back.” 

“But—“

“We need to give HQ _something_ , Jungeun.” She crosses her arms, “Or else you’ll be losing both your badge and custody of Yerim. There has already been discussions regarding your loyalty.” 

The thought of losing Yerim weighs more than anything else — knows that what used to be her lifeline has been replaced by a little girl who somehow finds cockroaches cute. 

Vivi pats her shoulder. “As soon as this is all over, you’ll get to keep Yerim and live a normal life with her under witness protection; new identities, anything you need— the ICA won’t find you.” She pauses, “We just need Yves, all right?”

It’s a question that only has one answer — one she doesn’t want to make. 

But was there even a choice to begin with?

“You’ll know what to do,” Vivi says, letting go and stepping back, not waiting for a response. “Good luck.” 

Maybe Vivi recognizes the conflict raging in her chest, hears it with every rapid thrum of her heart — it’s so loud it’s making Jungeun’s ears ring. 

Jungeun leaves without another word. 

—

Yves has had her fair share of odd passengers.

Missions requiring her skills on the road for quick escapes or lengthy chases where her charges would either be screaming at her to slow down, or be dead silent, gripping the handle above their seat like they’d fly out the window if they didn’t. 

They’d often make the distinction of their roles, too: reiterating the job she’s already doing as if she could forget with their constant reminders and backseat driving.

But Jinsol is none of that. 

“Woah, I never knew the fields could be so _big._ And dark _.”_

Jinsol’s peering at the window like a child, making noises of excitement, eyes filled with an innocent wonder, as they pass by various farmlands and wildlife. Or at least, whatever she could see with the help of streetlights and the night sky.

Yves is almost in awe herself at how much joy Jinsol seems to be taking in. Guess she’s never been outside of the city, before.

She ignores the smile attempting to break out across her lips, feeling the corners of her mouth twitch. 

She recognizes the bridge overlooking a lake, remembers the cold, dark, waters — how her knuckles turned white from gripping a metal cage, how panic spiked in her chest at the need for air. 

Yves breathes in. Out. In. Out. 

They’re almost there. 

It’s not until they’re climbing up the bridge that Yves notices the silence.

She glances beside her, sees how Jinsol’s gripping her seatbelt, hands going pale, eyes squeezed shut. 

It’s almost like she’s looking at a mirror. 

“...What’s wrong?” 

Jinsol’s voice trembles. “...I’m afraid of heights,” 

Yves doesn’t like the thought that comes to mind; how she’s considering whether it’ll help if she raises their speed, pressing down on the pedal, watching the meter gradually increase. 

It bothers her that Jinsol’s discomfort makes her squirm, hates how it reminds her of her own fears; she’d rather deal with a snarky one.

The truth leaves her lips before she could bite them down.

  
“I’m scared of the water,”

Yves chances another look, spots how Jinsol’s eyes are still screwed shut, but her fingers begin to loosen on the belt. 

“...So you don’t know how to swim?” Jinsol’s voice still quakes, but it’s not racked with terror, anymore. 

“No,” 

It also helped that Haseul’s only ever assigned her contracts that didn’t require the skill.

Jinsol no longer has a death grip, hands returning to their natural colour — a soft pink and beige hue. 

“...Me neither.”

When they’re nearing the end of the bridge, Yves’ gaze flickers to her side once more — sees Jinsol’s shoulders risen to her ears, her body squished back against the edge of her seat. 

She remembers that crippling fear. Stuck drowning in a shark cage as punishment for offering an apple to the new recruit who was meant to starve to death.

When Kim Hyunjin visited her a week later to thank her for a second chance at life, apple in hand, Yves knew she would do it all over again if she had to.

“You can open your eyes, now.” Yves says as soon as they’re off the bridge. 

It takes some time before Jinsol starts moving, spots her eyes flutter open, fear fading from her limbs.

“...For a second, I thought you were joking.” Jinsol says, her muscles relaxing, slumping into her seat. “That maybe you’ve even slowed down so that we’d be on it for a little longer…” 

Yves just shrugs; that’s not her type of fun — not when terror had such a chokehold on Jinsol. 

Jinsol fiddles with the seatbelt, gaze casted downwards. “...Thanks for not making fun of me.” 

From the sound of her voice, timid and small, it has haunted her for a long time; maybe childhood troubles or workplace shenanigans. 

Yves just hums, more relieved that Jinsol no longer looks like she wants to disappear. 

—

“So, this is it?” 

Jinsol trails behind her, hears the nerves dance on her tongue as they trek up a slope filled with trees and broken branches, the grass having long overgrown. 

Jinsol doesn’t seem to know how to stop talking; must be self-soothing. “Looks like no one’s been here for a while,” 

Yves grunts, pushes away stubborn pieces of wood until a building comes into view; tall and broken and abandoned. 

Jinsol comes up beside her. “Are you sure this is the right place?” 

She ignores her, scanning across the fields before walking forward; no one’s been able to locate them for a reason.

Inside is full of dust and cobwebs, a pair of old tractors covered in just as much time as the hanging panels dangling from the roof, the moon breaking through, streaks of white colouring their view. 

Yves presses her hand against the wall beside the machinery, feeling her way. 

Jinsol’s too talkative for her own good. “What are you doing?” 

It’s not until Yves feels a panel move under her hand that Jinsol falls silent, feels her gaze as she yanks it back, ripping it off to reveal a hidden stairwell, the end of it encased in darkness that the slight quake in Jinsol’s voice doesn’t come as a surprise. 

They really didn’t bother changing the layout at all.

Jinsol takes in a deep breath. “...We have to go down _there?_ ” 

Yves goes to peel the rest of the wooden panels. “You can still leave. I told you I’ll be fine on my own.” 

She hears Jinsol inhale a lungful of air, as if it’d bring out the courage she needs before huffing, even going so far as to shove her way through so she goes first.

Jinsol’s quiet muttering echoes around them. “You can do this, these are just stairs, filled with a bunch of dust bunnies, and a lot of spider webs…” 

Yves swallows down the laughter bubbling in her throat, following closely behind.

—

Anger has been her fuel for so long that Olivia doesn’t know how to run on anything else.

She watches the little girl sleep, arms cradling the stuffed toy like her body knows it brings her comfort even in her slumber. 

She’d been briefed on the situation by another handler (Haseul couldn’t be reached, for whatever reason— she’ll have to ask, later), remembers how one of the operatives behind the car crash had carried the kid back, settling her on one of the many spare training beds. 

Olivia didn’t think there was any more mercy left in him until she saw him lift the toy, making sure it was secured between the girl’s arms. 

_(“She’s all yours.”_

_Olivia snorted. “Took you long enough,”_

_“I wanted to make sure she got fixed up, first.”_

_She didn’t miss the numerous bandages across the little girl’s face, band-aids with cartoon pictures littering her skin._

_It was ridiculous how caring he’d been._

_“I know you have a personal vendetta against Yves, and unlike everyone else, I’m not looking for a promotion.” He moved past her, plucking his car keys out of his pocket. “Good luck, and have fun.”)_

Olivia scoffs at the memory. She doesn’t need luck — she can handle Yves, but fun? How could she when she doesn’t even like kids?

_(“Is that why no one else is here?” She said, crossing her arms. “Because they’re out looking for her?”_

_“She was one of our best — who also happens to know too much. Of course the Board doesn’t want the government finding her, first.” He waved over his shoulder, his keys jingling with every movement. “So, all hands on deck. Again, good luck.”)_

Olivia ignores the urge to roll her eyes at the image of his smile in her head; the only one who needs luck is Yves. 

She nudges the little girl with her shoe. “Hey. Wake up.” 

Olivia watches her stir, her face scrunching up, a small noise leaving her throat, before she’s snuggling tighter against her toy. 

She nudges her again. “Wake. Up.” 

A whine spills from her mouth, face contorting before her eyes finally flutter open. 

Olivia places the tray next to her; it isn’t a meal — just an apple and a glass of milk, but it’s better than nothing. 

Purple strands cascade over her shoulders as she sits up, rubbing her eyes, a soft yawn escaping her throat. 

She blinks up at her, gaze hazy from sleep. “...Mommy?” 

“ _Not_ your mom,”

“...Where’s my mommy?” 

Olivia shrugs. Besides the contract Yves has yet to complete — one that’s been fabricated to draw them out, she just knows her mother is as wanted as their now ex-ICA agent. 

The kid’s eyes grow glossy. 

Olivia frowns. “...You’re not going to cry on me, are you?” 

“...I want my mommy,” 

“Look,“ she sighs, runs a hand through her hair. How troublesome. “What’s your name?” 

She sniffles. “...Choerry,”

It’s instinctive. “Weird,” 

Choerry’s gaze gets even glossier. 

“Shit— I mean, _fuck._ ” Smooth. She doesn’t care about censorship, but for some reason, it feels wrong in front of Choerry. “I just meant, er, that it’s weird in like, a unique way.” 

God she’s horrible with kids. 

Choerry perks up, wiping her eyes. “...Really?” 

“Yeah,” she grimaces; anything to prevent the waterworks — that would require energy and she’s not up for using any. “It’s...different.” 

It doesn’t sound like a compliment, but Choerry seems to take it as one, anyway. 

Olivia points at the tray. “Now eat.” 

Choerry stares at it, gaze still watery, a frown curling across her mouth. “Mommy cuts apples for me…” 

Her brow twitches. “Again. _Not_ your mom.” 

The reminder must’ve stung; the beginning of tears well up beneath her eyes again. “...I’m not hungry.” 

Fine, Olivia thinks. Not her fault if she ends up starving herself to death. 

She just needs her to play bait. 

Choerry lays back down, turning over so she faces the wall; Olivia can’t read her expression. 

Olivia’s used to cold shoulders; it’s her preferred method of communication, anyway, so Choerry not being interested in talking is a blessing. 

She leans back into her chair, pulling up her phone in search of a game to kill time. 

Olivia pretends she doesn’t see Choerry’s body tremble, ignores Choerry’s quiet whimpers and muffled calls for her mother. 

—

There should be some reward for playing the waiting game. 

Her patience is almost non-existent, and with the uncertainty that Yves might not be coming at all has her irritated and on edge. 

Olivia’s gaze strays from her phone screen when she spots Choerry’s stuffed toy fall over the bed, knows exactly what the character represents. 

Guess she likes Pokémon. 

She stands, stretches her limbs — might as well get the blood moving in her legs for a bit.

“...Eevee gave it to me,” Olivia’s fingers barely grip the toy before Choerry’s voice slithers into her ears, watching her rub at her eyes. 

Olivia sets it back on the bed. “Eevee?”

“For my birthday,” Choerry grabs it, arms circling around it again. 

She doesn’t know any “Eevee.”

Choerry squeezes the toy closer. “What’s your name?”

She’s much more chatty, now. Guess she needed more sleep to get over being kidnapped. Or maybe she’s just trying hard not to think about it.

“Olivia,” 

“Is that a code name?” She pauses, as if pondering. “Like Eevee?” 

Eevee? Codename?

The only one who would match is Yves; the reminder makes her blood boil. 

“Tell me about her,” she starts, reels in the anger simmering on her tongue.

“Eevee’s my friend,” Choerry pauses, “and mommy’s _very_ special friend.” 

“‘Very’?” 

“Very.” 

“Not _‘very_ very’?” 

Choerry pouts. “Now that’s just too much.” 

She hums, watches Choerry reach out for the small box of milk still on the tray. It was only a matter of time before she gave in.   
  


“How do you know?” Olivia asks.

Yves should know better than to form any sort of relationships; they make them easier targets.   
  


“They kiss and hold hands when they think I’m not looking.” 

Olivia wants to laugh. She knew Choerry was important, but to be _this_ significant of a leverage — the amount of options to ruin Yves just skyrocketed. 

“How cute,” she says, settles beside Choerry on the bed, the tray keeping them apart. “You must be very special to them, too. Like a family.”

Choerry goes quiet, lips pressing against the edges of the carton, attempting to hide the small smile curling across her mouth. 

It’s hard to miss the happiness in her voice. 

“...I hope so.”

Olivia tries to push down the green envy sparking in her chest, smother it like a flame that barely gets to burn. 

Yves doesn’t deserve them — doesn’t deserve that happiness that comes with having people who care. Not when she ruined _hers_.

Olivia feels her fingers twitch, itching to just _hurt._

It would only take a few seconds to reach over, twist Choerry’s neck. It’d be so easy.

“Can I take a look at that for a bit?” Olivia asks, gaze shifting lower. 

Choerry follows her eyes, a bright smile lighting up her face when she finds her attention focused on the toy in her arms, eagerly handing it over. 

Olivia feels anger rise faster, bubbling in her chest, searing beneath her skin, as soon as it brushes her palms. Her fingers tremble to do something — _anything,_ just to stop the tremors.

Her hands curl around its neck, imagines it’s Yves between her fingers instead. 

She rips it apart.

Cottons of white spill out of its body, sprinkling the floor like snow, the satisfaction of seeing it split in two instantly cooling the blazing rage that’s been rattling her bones.

“Eevee!” 

Choerry’s scrambling to her, desperate to check on something as useless as a toy. Or what’s left of it.

Olivia flings both halves over her shoulders, watches the head roll until it bumps against the wall, its body stopping by the door.

Choerry’s broken sobs quake across the room, loud and raw; anguish, despair, frustration— Olivia knows them all too well.

She crouches in front of her, watches Choerry cradle the toy on the floor, trying to piece it back together; her tears seem endless. 

Good.

“It’s just a stuffed toy, you know.” Her syllables come out monotonous, “It’s not real, so it shouldn’t be worth crying about.”

Choerry lifts her gaze; it almost has Olivia flinching. The fury in her eyes is all-too familiar.

“You’re— you’re wrong,“ she hiccups, rubbing her eyes with the end of her sleeve, voice rising. “Eevee’s real to _me!_ ”

Maybe it’s the way she says it, how it sounds like she’s referring to someone else and not the Pokémon on television that makes Olivia see _red._

Her vision clears the moment Choerry cowers back, sees how she’s trying to be strong despite the fear laced in her eyes. 

Olivia’s fist tremors, realizes it’s still in the air, ready to hammer down on a _child_ , that the sight returns reason back to her mind like mist clearing away, withdrawing her hand.

She hopes it isn’t obvious in her voice how much she’s still shaking.

“...Get used to this feeling,” Olivia remembers the time she’d been in Choerry’s position, holding her parents as the flames burned around her, licking at her skin. “Because it’s all you’ll ever know once I’m done here.”

Olivia leaves, the door barely smothering Choerry’s cries. 

—

It’s too quiet. 

Her ears strain for the slightest sound — anything to give away the fact that they’re not alone, but besides their own pair of footsteps, there’s nothing. 

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Jinsol whispers, closer to her side so she doesn’t have to be louder than necessary. “It’s way too... _empty_.” 

She’s right, which is a problem. 

They’ve made it at the end of the stairwell, opening up to a corridor in pristine white — almost medical, too polished, extending all the way to the other side. 

Various rooms line up along the walls, numbers marked from 1 to 100 going as far as the next hall. The ceiling is high, spotting office spaces littering the first, second, and third, floor. 

It looks exactly like how she remembers it. Even if she’s never trained at this one, specifically. 

But there’s no one. 

“Come on, spare me an answer, at least.” Jinsol nudges her elbow, hears the way she’s trying not to sound nervous. “Don’t just ignore me.” 

Yves rolls her eyes. 

“This is a training centre,” she starts, gaze darting towards the cameras situated in every corner. “It shouldn’t be empty to begin with.” 

Jinsol groans. “Great.” 

They’re out in the open, easy targets for an ambush, yet there’s nothing like that. 

They wouldn’t send out every single available agent just to find her, would they? It sounds careless, reckless, and a waste of assets. 

“Maybe they just—“ 

Yves raises her hand, glad that Jinsol catches on quick, the words dying on her lips. 

Her ears strain to hear it, but it’s there. 

As soon as she recognizes the sound, Yves dashes for it, remembers it in those rare moments through her bedroom window when sleep became the furthest thing from her mind and her heart ached at being unable to fix it.

“Yves?!” Jinsol hisses, hears her stumbling to catch up with her.

Choerry’s choked sobs grow louder the closer she gets, hoping that this time, she could do something about it — give her some relief when she couldn’t, before.

She skids around a corner, eyes darting for the sound, heart pounding against her rib cage as Choerry’s voice echoes throughout the building, reverberating against the walls.

It becomes harder to discern exactly where she is. 

“Hey, we’ll split up.” Jinsol’s voice brings her back, grounds her. “I’ll take left, you go right.” 

Yves pushes down the desperation bubbling in her stomach, nodding. 

She surveys each room, finding them empty one after another; it does nothing but make panic build up in her chest. 

Choerry’s broken whimpers continue to strike through her ears, stressing the gears in her legs, fueling her to move faster. 

She wants to call out her name, let her know she’s here, but her voice catches in her throat, anxiety coiling her neck. 

Yves halts just behind a closed door, hears Choerry’s muffled cries puncturing through steel and into her heart. 

“...E-Eevee…?”

Relief floods through Yves’ limbs the moment Choerry colours her vision, door creaking open under her hand, stumbling forward just as Choerry scrambles to stand, meet her halfway.

She kneels to catch her, Choerry filling up her arms like all those other times she’s gotten to hold her, feels Choerry’s sobs rack her tiny body, spilling into Yves’ bones.

“I’m here,” Yves coos, shutting her eyes, resting a comforting hand against the back of Choerry’s head, her cries pressing into Yves’ neck. “I’m here. I’m here.” 

“About time, too.” 

Yves stiffens.

It takes a split second for the voice to register in her head, but it’s all Yves needs to maneuver, spin around just as the end of a knife starts to dig into her back— feels it slide by, narrowly missing her spine. 

Yves elbows Hyejoo’s arm, keeping the dagger away from Choerry before sweeping her leg, knocking Hyejoo off balance. 

She launches into a sprint out the door, Choerry holding on tight in her arms.

She had hoped it would be anyone else — a tactical ops unit, a squad of ex-soldiers, or even a building filled with just initiates looking to make a big break, but it’s Hyejoo. 

She would never let her go.

Yves curses under her breath, holding Choerry tighter.

  
Where the hell is Jinsol?

“You should drop her,” Hyejoo’s voice echoes down the hall, a gun clicking afterwards. “She’ll only slow you down, and we both know you’ll need two hands if you want to even have a chance.”

Yves squeezes into another room, an office, gaze flitting for a hiding spot she could leave Choerry in long enough to handle Hyejoo — and hopefully escape.

“I’m going to have to put you down,” Yves whispers, tries to get Choerry to the ground, but her tiny hands only grip tighter. “Choerry—“ 

“No...” Choerry buries herself deeper, feels her tears soak the crook of her neck. “I don’t want you to get hurt like Little Eevee…” 

Yves recalls the stuffed toy — or what was left of it, remembers fluffy white littering the floor when Choerry still had it in her arms. 

She rubs her back, tries to steady her heart, knows that Hyejoo could catch up at any second. 

“But I can’t protect you like this,” Yves pats her head, attempts to ease the tears still dropping on her skin. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” 

“I don’t want you to get hurt, either…” 

Yves presses her temple against the side of Choerry’s head, the softest she’s willing to be; she hates the way her heart is in her throat, tears welling up beneath her eyes. 

The ICA never taught her how to deal with this.

She holds her a little tighter, hopes that Choerry can feel how much she cares— how much she doesn’t want to let go, either. 

“I won’t,” Yves sets her down, urges her to loosen her grip with a promise she’s not sure she’s going to keep. “After all, I still have a birthday party to attend, don’t I?” 

Choerry’s all teary-eyed and nervous hands, but when Yves reaches up to pinch her cheek gently, a smile finally curls across her lips. 

“...Okay.” Choerry mumbles, fiddling with her fingers, gaze darting between her and her hands, before sealing her oath with a chaste peck on Yves’ cheek. “It’s a promise.”

Yves ignores the flush spreading across her skin, flustered at the tiny happy smile brightening up Choerry’s face— as if proud of being the reason she’s turned red. 

When Choerry lifts her pinky finger, as if for good measure, Yves seals it, knows nothing else will be as convincing as a vow she’s sworn to make. 

“I’ll be right back,” Yves says, ushers Choerry to hide under the desk. “Will you be okay?”

“Will you?” Choerry quips.

She chuckles, ruffles her hair. “I’m a cockroach, now, remember?”

Choerry giggles, nodding, before scurrying closer to the corner of the desk that’s furthest from the door — away from view. 

Now she just needs to find Jinsol.

Hyejoo’s voice echoes again. “Looking for someone?”

Yves ducks behind a pillar, listening for Hyejoo’s footsteps, recognizes her slow walk, how she halts, a grunt following afterwards. 

Yves pulls out her gun, tightening the suppressor, careful not to make a sound. 

“This one’s feisty,” Hyejoo says, eliciting another grunt from Jinsol. “Fiddling around with our database — don’t tell me you’ve joined a new cause.” 

She peeks around, just enough to catch sight of Hyejoo standing in the middle of the hallway, Jinsol kneeling on the ground, her wrist locked between Hyejoo’s hands. 

Applying just a bit of pressure has Jinsol crumpling, hearing her sharp cry of pain. 

“I know you’re still here,” Hyejoo’s eyes dart around the rooms, inching forward, dragging Jinsol with her. “You wouldn’t leave someone behind — even if it’s the smartest option.” 

Yves waits for her to get closer, but Hyejoo stops, twisting Jinsol’s wrist a little tighter. 

Jinsol’s whimpering seems to only amuse Hyejoo further.

“How about this: on the count of three, if you don’t show yourself, I’m breaking one of her fingers.” Hyejoo pauses, “And I’ll keep going until you come out, or if she runs out of fingers, whichever comes first.”

“D-Don’t, Yves—!” Jinsol yells, before another cry of pain pierces the air, watching her squirm as Hyejoo twists her wrist a little more. 

“You know what? I think I’ll break your mouth afterwards just for that,” Hyejoo says, gaze back to scouring the room. “So, do we have a deal?”

Yves doesn’t answer her.

Hyejoo chuckles. “Good.” 

Yves listens to the sound of her countdown instead of Jinsol’s whimpers.

“One,” Hyejoo waits, “two,” her eyes narrow, sharpening as she raises Jinsol’s finger. “Thre—“ 

She aims in the split second it takes for Hyejoo to breathe out the syllable, firing the moment it leaves Hyejoo’s lips. 

Yves sprints for her just as Hyejoo staggers backwards in pain, clutching her bleeding hand, Jinsol taking this chance to spring up and flee. 

“Choerry is four doors down, in the office to the left,” Yves says as soon as Jinsol’s within arms reach, tugging her elbow. “Take her and go.” 

There’s a myriad of emotions on Jinsol’s face; relief, distress, panic, concern. “But what about y—“ 

Hyejoo’s frustrated scream cuts her off, spots how she’s retrieving a gun from her waist with her good hand, the other painted in red, blood trickling to the floor.

Yves shoves Jinsol in Choerry’s direction just as Hyejoo aims towards them. “Just _go!_ ” 

She dives for another room as several rounds get fired, recognizes the chemical storage closet, several bottles and cans lining up the shelves and floor. 

Yves’ relieved none of the bullets made it to Jinsol, watching her run off in the opposite direction.

“Couldn’t even let her lose a single finger,” Hyejoo’s words rattle across the walls, hears her steps pick up the pace. “Your softness is showing.” 

Her mind is a whirlwind of ideas, a film playing in her head, deciding which action would leave with no one dead.

Yves scans for a new cover spot, charging for the set of wooden boxes piled up across the hallway as she targets each beam of light above their heads, pulling the trigger. 

It’s inevitable that Hyejoo sees her, but Yves knows the boxes are enough to take on a few more rounds. 

The lights crackle before dying out, blanketing them in shadows and stray strands of light spilling from the other rooms. It doesn’t remove every light source in the building, but it’s enough to provide her with additional cover and mobility. 

Hyejoo scoffs. “Hiding away like the coward you are, how fitting.” 

Yves maneuvers around the boxes, keeping her distance as Hyejoo slowly walks closer. 

She curses when the new phone Haseul had given her vibrates in her jacket, lunging for the nearest cover, narrowly missing the barrage of bullets from Hyejoo. 

“What a rookie mistake,” Hyejoo says, chuckling. 

Yves silences it. No use stewing in frustration, now. Even without the ringtone, she’s not surprised vibrations alone are more than enough for Hyejoo to hear. 

Haseul’s name is reoccurring in the brief time she gets the chance to glance at the screen, before tucking it back into her inner coat pocket.

When her fingers graze something small, Yves juggles with ducking into a new spot where Hyejoo can’t find her as she rummages around the inside of her jacket, yanking out a device she knows shouldn’t be on her to begin with.

Yves almost laughs at the memory.

_(“It’s too bad about your suit,” Jungeun said, fingers tracing the worn edges. “You look good in it.”)_

That was the only time Jungeun had been close enough to plant a bug in her jacket. 

She’s impressed. Her pride feels a little sore knowing she’d been fooled. _Again._ But it’s Jungeun — her expertise on the field has Yves feeling proud of her for it, too. 

She crushes the device beneath her shoe, hoping there’s still a chance that Jungeun hasn’t made it close enough to estimate her location. 

“Peekaboo,” 

Hyejoo’s gun presses against her temple, but Yves doesn’t let surprise freeze the gears in her limbs, twisting to disarm her. 

She hears Hyejoo grunt before knocking her off balance with a sweep against the back of Hyejoo’s knees, watching her crumble, seizing her arm and yanking hard for a throw over her shoulder.  
  


She doesn’t give Hyejoo the chance to inhale the air that leaves her lungs as soon as her body slams the ground, stomping down hard. 

Yves hopes to break a few ribs — incapacitate Hyejoo long enough to run.   
  


But her foot meets strong arms instead of Hyejoo’s chest, shoving her backwards.

“...Good one,” Hyejoo’s rising slowly, hears her take in a breath. “You should’ve just gone for the kill right from the start.” 

“I’m not killing you,” Yves steps back, steadying her stance, hands curling into fists. “Get used to it.” 

Hyejoo bristles. “Suit yourself.” 

“Eevee!” 

Her heart leaps to her throat, sees Choerry attempting to escape from Jinsol’s hold, Jinsol struggling to pull her away. 

“Y-Yerim— stop! We have to _go!_ ” 

“No!”

Yves barely registers what’s happening, mind spinning at all the possibilities things could go wrong. 

“You don’t deserve them.” Hyejoo’s voice startles her back to reality, feels the words breeze against her cheek. “You don’t deserve _anyone._ ” 

Yves grunts from the punch to her stomach, manages a cough before Hyejoo’s knee comes up to strike below her chin, have her staggering backwards. 

Bloody fingers grab her neck in a titan grip as Hyejoo follows her, pushing to slam her down to the ground. 

She feels winded, tasting copper on her tongue, how it begins to swirl in her mouth. Hyejoo squeezes her throat. 

“Now you’ll get to know how I feel,” Hyejoo rips her gun from her hand, aiming for Choerry and Jinsol. “And how much it still _hurts_.”

“Eevee!” 

Choerry’s voice grows further away as Jinsol runs, finally manages to get Choerry secured in her arms. 

Yves ignores the pain racking her limbs, clutching Hyejoo’s red-soaked hand around her throat, pressing down hard.

Hyejoo’s scream pierces her ears, but it’s not as loud as the rapid pounding of her heart — how it races at the thought of Choerry and Jinsol getting hurt. 

Yves twists Hyejoo’s hand away from her neck, shooting forward to tackle her down, take back the gun swaying in Hyejoo’s grip. 

A shot rings throughout the building. 

Yves looks up to see Jinsol and Choerry already long gone. The relief that clouds her mind is almost overwhelming. 

“You took _everything_ from me!” Hyejoo shouts, kicks her off; Yves can feel the stitches in her side stretch open, coughing out air as soon as her back meets the ground. “You took away the only people who mattered to me! The only ones who _cared_ about me!” 

It’s as if their freedom triggered the rage that’s been boiling in Hyejoo for years, having it all finally spill over, the fury and desperation bleeding through her voice. 

She can’t blame her.

Hyejoo flings the gun over her shoulder, settling for fists instead, straddling her and throwing a swing that Yves manages to catch, groaning when Hyejoo’s free hand strikes down onto her side. 

The stitches tear apart, feeling warmth spill out of her skin. 

Hyejoo seems to have noticed, too. 

“...You should’ve just left me behind,” Hyejoo snarls, digging her knuckles into her side, the pain nearly paralyzing. “You should’ve just left me to burn with them.” 

Yves hisses at the pressure, feels the skin split further open as Hyejoo twists. 

Her vision starts to blur, head beginning to spin. 

Hyejoo’s breath tickles her ear. 

“And to think you’re not the type to make mistakes,” Yves bites down a scream when Hyejoo reels back just to jab her fist, as if her knuckles digging into her open skin weren’t already enough to make her bleed. “I guess it’s too late for regrets now though, isn’t it?” 

The pain is dizzying, but Yves isn’t about to die without letting Hyejoo know the truth. 

“...Y-You’re right, I don’t make mistakes.” Yves squeezes out between shallow breaths, ignores the hurt that flickers through Hyejoo’s eyes — a moment of weakness she knows she doesn’t mean to show. “...So what exactly am I supposed to regret if I hadn’t made any?” 

Hyejoo’s eyes widen, the surprise so palpable it almost has Yves questioning if it’s real— if the amount of blood she’s lost has finally gotten to her head. Hyejoo never makes any other expression except contempt.

“Me!” Hyejoo’s hands shake, gripping her blood-soaked dress shirt, feels them tremor through cotton, her forehead pressing against Yves’ chest; Yves tries to focus on everything else instead of the fact that her eyelids feel heavy. “... _Me…_ ” 

Yves has a lot to apologize for. She knows that. She’s even played through the lines in her head, rehearsed them in preparation for a chance like this — where Hyejoo could just sit still and _listen_ instead of always trying to kill her, first.

But it takes all of her energy just to breathe. No matter how hard she tries to open her mouth, have the words finally escape her lips, her voice refuses to leave her throat.

She just needs to say it; it’s easy. _You’re not a mistake._

“H-Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” Yves strains to see Hyejoo through half-lidded eyes, vision blurring that all she sees is a haze, hears the panic coil around each syllable. “Don’t go falling asleep on me— _hey!_ ” 

Whatever words Hyejoo says afterwards fall on deaf ears, darkness filling her vision, her eyes drawing shut.

—

Jungeun nearly trips over branches and overgrown greens when she spots Jinsol running towards her, Yerim in her arms.

“Yerim!” Relief bleeds through her throat, hoarse from worry it’s almost scathing to talk, but Jungeun doesn’t mind it when Yerim’s finally close enough to touch. “Are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?” 

Yerim takes one glance at her before bursting into tears, arms outstretched, wanting to be held. 

Jungeun doesn’t hesitate, cradling her close, the weight on her heart finally lifting. 

“I’m here,” she coos, brushing loose purple strands from Yerim’s face, kissing the tear tracks off her skin; they don’t belong there. “I’m here, Yerim. Everything’s going to be okay.” 

“How did you even manage to find us?” Jinsol’s huffing, bent over, gripping her knees. “I—I don’t have my phone,”

“I bugged Soo—“ Jungeun catches herself, “—Yves. It’s in her jacket.” 

Jinsol coughs out a laugh. “You’ve always been quick on your feet,” 

“Speaking of Yves, didn’t you come here with her? Where is she?” 

Jungeun had managed to memorize the general location of Sooyoung’s tracker before the signal disappeared (hopefully because Sooyoung had found it herself and not because it had gone through too much damage), but bumping into Jinsol was still mostly luck. 

There’s a look on Jinsol’s face, a mixture between apologetic and uncertainty, like she isn’t sure she should say. 

Jungeun swallows down the fear crawling up her throat. “Just spit it out, Sol.” 

“It’s not safe for us,” 

Jungeun can hear her voice rising. “That’s not what I asked,” 

“I know,” Jinsol is wringing her hands, fidgeting like she can’t keep still. “But Yves wants us to be safe.” 

“Since when do you care about what _she_ wants?” 

“I just…” she bites her lip, “...she worked hard to get us out. I don’t want it to be for nothing.” 

There would be no reason for Sooyoung to be left behind if there wasn’t a problem to handle. 

She won’t let her solve it alone.

“My car is just behind those trees,” Jungeun digs for her keys, lifting it to Jinsol, nods in the direction of her vehicle. “Take it and bring Yerim with you.” 

Jinsol recoils, shaking her head. “What? No!”

“Sol—“

Yerim’s grip tightening around her neck reminds her that Jinsol isn’t the only one present. 

“Don’t go…” Yerim’s words mumble against her neck, hears how her sobs have withered into hiccups. “...I don’t want you to go.”

“Yerim…”

“Eevee said she’d come back,” she sniffles, buries herself deeper against her, “but she didn’t. I don’t want you to lie to me, too.” 

Her heart shatters at the resignation in Yerim’s voice, like she’s expecting to be disappointed again, yet still hoping it won’t happen.

Jungeun squeezes her tighter, combing fingers through purple hair. 

“Mommy has never lied to you, has she?” She starts, pressing her lips to Yerim’s temple, mumbles against the soft skin and baby hairs so that Yerim could feel the truth in them. “I’ll be back. And I’ll bring Eevee with me so you can scold her properly, okay?”

“Woah, woah, woah, hold on.” Jinsol’s gripping her arm, frantic lips matching the rush in her voice. “You’re not going anywhere else but back home.” 

Jungeun scowls. “I’m not leaving her behind,” 

“You’re not,” Jinsol’s brows furrowed, “Not when she’d rather you stay far away from here.”

“She doesn’t get to decide what I can and can’t do,” 

“Even if it’s the best thing to do?” 

“She doesn’t know what’s best for me,” Jungeun’s gaze narrows, “and neither do you.” 

“Jungeun—“ 

“It’s final, Jinsol.” Jungeun kisses the side of Yerim’s head, mumbles _‘I’ll be right back’_ , before passing her over to Jinsol, watching her reluctantly hold Yerim. “We’re not having this conversation, again.”

The corners of Jinsol’s lips curve downwards, her jaw tightening, showcased in the way the slopes of her cheeks grow taut. 

It reminds Jungeun of how her hand had left a print on her skin, pink and almost as bright as the betrayal that coloured Jinsol’s eyes then.

Jinsol probably has more words waiting to spring from her mouth, winding up to launch whatever she thinks will be enough to dissuade her, give her reasons as to why she shouldn’t, but it doesn’t matter how sound or logical they may be. 

Jungeun’s intimacy with Sooyoung has always been irrational from the start.

That can’t be solved with reason.

“...It’s kind of terrifying how many ways you’ve said, ‘I love you’ without actually saying it, to her.” Jinsol snorts, a small laugh escaping her lips. 

Jungeun blinks, her thoughts stuttering to a stop, mind still whirring to process each syllable, but nothing really registers except for the laughter lines drawing across Jinsol’s eyes.

Jinsol readjusts her grip on Yerim, taking the keys still dangling between Jungeun’s frozen fingers. 

“Just keep following up this path and you’ll find a dusty old barn. Inside on the left is a wall with broken panels that lead to an abandoned underground missile silo.” Jinsol starts moving forward, brushing past her. “Last I saw, there was only one ICA agent in there with her, but still, be careful.”

Jungeun catches her arm, squeezing gently. 

“...Thanks.” She bites her lip, “...Again.” 

Jungeun watches her tread carefully down towards the car, memorizing Yerim’s tearful eyes blinking up at her; hopeful, worried, and scared, as they get further down the overgrown slopes. 

She sends her a smile before twisting away. 

—

It smells of rust and dust and metal. 

A putrid mix almost as nauseating as the sight of Sooyoung in familiar red, how the colour has spread across her already worn-out dress shirt, beginning to pool beneath her. 

Jungeun doesn’t need to think twice. 

She takes aim, firing at the woman attempting to hoist Sooyoung onto her back, watching her tumble to the side. She’s gripping her arm, red oozing between her fingers.

“Get the hell away from her!” 

Jungeun’s hands are steady, gaze scorching, watching the woman wobble to a stand, still frustratingly too close to Sooyoung. 

Jungeun inches forward, finger slowly squeezing the trigger. She doesn’t pull it completely, not yet.

“I said _move!_ ” 

The woman’s eyes dart between her and Sooyoung, her emotions hard to distinguish when long dark strands shield most of her face. 

A stampede of footsteps echo behind her; Jungeun twists for a glance, can’t help but make sure it’s her team and not a swarm of ICA agents as backup, before shifting back to find the woman disappearing behind a closed door. 

“Hey!”

Jungeun curses, running after her, yanking it open to find an office much like all the others she’s seen earlier, basic and just as empty.

It’d take too much time to scavenge for a secret passage when the minutes count more for someone else. 

Jungeun hurries back to Sooyoung, knows that no one else is as important as the one who has her heart, cradling Sooyoung close, checking for that familiar rhythm in her chest. 

“J-Jungeun…?” 

She nearly jumps at her voice, tucking Sooyoung’s hair back, watching her eyes slowly flutter open. 

Relief is intoxicating, feeling it surge through her limbs, joy encouraging her to lean in, taste her name on Sooyoung’s lips — only to catch herself when a command is thrown her way.

“Cuff her.” 

Jungeun jolts up, sees Vivi approach with a squad geared from head to toe. 

“Wait, she’s hurt—“ Jungeun’s arms tighten around Sooyoung, “she’s not going to—“

“Or else you’re joining her,” there’s no malice, more resigned and defeated, like Vivi’s hands have been tied and she’s forced to play the part. “So please. Just do it, Jungeun.” 

Jungeun looks down, spots Sooyoung’s half-lidded eyes attempting to stay open, meet her gaze, her breathing strained and shallow. 

Despite the blood still seeping through her shirt, colouring in whatever’s left of the original white, the weak smile on Sooyoung’s lips stays.

Jungeun presses a hand against her wound, attempting to slow the bleed, prolong the life in Sooyoung’s eyes like she had done for her. 

The choice is obvious.

“No.” 

—

“Honestly? Kind of looks good on you.” Jinsol chuckles, clearly trying to lighten up the mood, Yerim scrambling to hug her. “At least you’re allowed to ride back with me and not one of those squad cars.”

Jungeun rolls her eyes, handcuffs circled around her wrists. She lifts her arms so Yerim can squeeze under them.

“Are you okay?” Yerim’s small hands grip her back, tears filling beneath her eyelids. “You’re not hurt, right?” 

Jungeun holds her the best she could, guiding her towards the backseat of her car, Jinsol settling into the driver’s seat. 

“I’m okay, don’t worry.” She says, kissing Yerim’s cheek.

“Why is this on you?” Yerim gets cozy beside her as Jinsol starts the engine, tiny fingers tracing the edges of metal. 

“Just to make sure I don’t go running off on my own, again.” Jungeun’s not about to tell her it’s because her agency is done making exceptions for her. 

“Not surprised,” Jinsol follows after the two squad cars, the middle vehicle housing Sooyoung. “How is she?” 

It doesn’t take long for her to figure out who Jinsol’s referring to. 

Jungeun tries not to think about how they had forced Sooyoung up on her feet, dragging her to the car in handcuffs with a poorly wrapped dressing to cover the injury, yet still expected her to answer whatever questions they had without fainting from all the blood loss and physical exertion on a worn out body.

“Alive,” _for now,_ Jungeun refuses to let them leave her lips — she doesn’t want to speak it into existence. 

They’re rolling up towards the bridge, the lights few and far in between, barely illuminating the road if not for their respective headlights and the faint glow of the night sky. 

Yerim’s head rests against her shoulder, fallen victim to slumber, hearing her soft snores paired with the rumble of tires and the hum of the engine. 

She can feel exhaustion creep up along her skin, eyelids beginning to droop. It’s been a long day; she’s sure it wouldn’t hurt to get some shut-eye — catch a bit of rest before the inevitable interrogation regarding her insubordination and questionable integrity scheduled in a few hours. 

_Bang._

Jungeun jumps before she could fall asleep entirely, barely manages to catch herself from shooting forward at Jinsol’s abrupt stop, tires screeching to a halt. 

“What the hell?!” Jinsol shouts. 

Jungeun follows her gaze, watching the car in front of them skid and spin past the railing, one of the tires having popped open. 

She could hear them hit the brakes, how the wheels screech to stop, but it’s already too late.

They disappear over the edge. 

“Jungeun?! Hey!” 

Jungeun ignores Jinsol’s yelling, sprinting towards the open space to find half of the car already submerged in water. They’re sinking fast. 

And with how dark it is now, it wouldn’t be hard to lose them.

Her heart is pounding hard against her chest, feels as if it’d break open her ribcage, have her collapse from the sheer tremors that manages to reach and quake through her legs. 

Sooyoung’s in there. 

Jungeun turns, tries to find the sniper, squinting to see a silhouette disappear behind a hill drowned in tall arching trees.

“Who the hell has a sniper out in the middle of nowhere?!” Vivi’s jogging up beside her, sees her squad car parked a few meters behind her — one of the members still lingering in the driver’s seat. “We can’t lose her!” 

Jungeun runs to him, makes sure she stays silent by the car, pilfering for the keys dangling at the edge of his pocket. 

Thankfully he wasn’t part of the crew now sinking into cold waters, dodging his hands when he notices her sprinting to leave. 

“H-Hey! Get back here!” 

She throws the metallic rings over her shoulder, hears them clanging to the ground. 

Jinsol’s yelling, but it’s not what she expects; her words far from discouraging. 

“She can’t swim!” Jungeun shoots a glance in Jinsol’s direction, spots Yerim peeking through the window of her car. “Yves is afraid of the water!” 

She doesn’t dwell on how Jinsol knows this; there probably wasn’t much else to do but get to know each other when they had escaped. 

She doesn’t need a reason to save Sooyoung, but Jinsol’s support only fuels her legs to go faster, taking the leap over broken edges of steel and debris, ignoring the shouts from Vivi and the rest of her team. 

They should know by now that she’s the best swimmer they’ve got.

It’s a long way down, the air prickling at her skin, but she’s done enough dives over the deep end to handle the fall. 

The water is freezing, feels it crash against her hands, her arms, her face, her legs — swallowing her completely, much like the vehicle beside her. 

It’s even darker — the bridge’s lights barely scrape the surface, and from the looks of it, Sooyoung hasn’t managed to come up and reach it, either.

In fact, no one has. 

Jungeun pretends fear isn’t crawling up her chest, ignoring the panic bubbling in her stomach. Her hands reach for the car, leaning against the window, attempting to take a peek on the inside. 

She squints, barely making out the two agents at the front, frighteningly still in their seats like they haven’t bothered to escape at all. 

Dread simmers beneath her skin, maneuvering towards the windshield, noting the bullet holes that have pierced through it — and into each of the agents’ foreheads. 

Whoever did this had a plan and they knew how to execute it. 

_Sooyoung. Sooyoung. Sooyoung._

Jungeun swims towards the backseat, finding the window broken, the inside, empty. 

Sooyoung couldn’t have done this. At least, not alone. But since when did she have time to call for reinforcements? And even then, the ICA would rather have her dead. 

She wouldn’t have anyone else except—

Jungeun rises up to the surface, brushing her hair back. She twists around, attempts to scan for some sort of sign: bubbles floating to the surface, movement across calm waters — 

“Be quiet and turn around. _Slowly._ ” 

— something cold presses against the back of her head.

“Hey! Are you okay down there?!” 

Jungeun ignores Jinsol’s shout in favour of obeying the command, focusing on the small boat floating in front of her, drifting just below the bridge —out of sight, the woman’s hair spilling over her shoulders in long blonde waves. 

Haseul’s behind the stranger, holding Sooyoung in her arms. 

Jungeun swallows her name down, stops herself from calling out, biting her lip. 

The end of her gun nestles into its new spot, the steel cool against Jungeun’s forehead.

“Here’s the deal: we’re going to leave, and you’re going to keep quiet. You’re going to say nothing to anyone and everyone, and you’re going to pretend we were never here.” The woman’s voice is almost childlike — a higher pitch, slightly even raspy? She can’t quite describe it. “Understood?” 

Jungeun’s gaze drifts back to Sooyoung — drenched, unconscious, her wrists still caged in metal.  
  


She nods. 

“Good,” the woman pauses, a cheeky smile lighting up her lips. “Now be a dear and give this boat a push.” 

“Gowon,” Haseul sighs, shaking her head.

The pistol is withdrawn from Jungeun’s skin, turning away to slump against the side, likely to keep both of them within her peripheral vision. 

“What? We have to keep quiet, so obviously we need a head start.” Gowon crosses her arms, huffing. “The motor is loud, you know.” 

“It’s fine,” Jungeun says, fingers coming up to grip the edges, eyeing Sooyoung; she needs to get somewhere warm and out of those cold wet clothes. “I’ll do it.” 

She tries not to let Gowon’s impishly smug smile get to her. 

“Perfect.” 

Haseul breathes out another sigh, but her gaze is grateful. “Just until we’re close to land, all right?”

—

When they get to shore, Jungeun doesn’t waste any time reaching for Sooyoung, brushing wet strands from her face. 

She’s freezing.

“You’ll take care of her?” She can’t help but ask, even when she knows Haseul’s the only person she’d trust to keep Sooyoung safe — besides herself. 

Haseul settles by Sooyoung’s head, securing her hands beneath the crooks of Sooyoung’s arms. 

“I will.” 

Gowon’s waving her fingers at her, attempting to shoo Jungeun away, take up the spot by Sooyoung’s feet.

“Move over, agent Heart Eyes; we need to get going.” 

Jungeun staggers back at the blonde’s shove, frowning at the nickname and how she can’t help Sooyoung any more than this — running up to help support Sooyoung’s back as they carry her to the small car hidden beneath one end of the bridge. 

“Don’t follow us either, got it?” Gowon says before she’s shutting the door in her face, Sooyoung lying across the backseat with Haseul tending to her.

For someone so tiny, Gowon has a lot of spunk and crass.

Jungeun won’t, but she wants to at least know if she’ll get to see Sooyoung again — maybe even hear from her, when she gets better — but the words don’t make it out of her mouth before they’re moving, watching them take her heart away. 

She goes back to the boat, shoves it into the water, knows that her team would trace their tracks on land if she doesn’t. She should at least prolong the search, give them enough time to disappear.

It’s unfortunate they didn’t bother sparing the two agents’ lives, though. No one had to die, tonight. 

Jungeun doesn’t know how long it’s been since they left, watching the boat float into the distance. 

She’s still frozen in place until someone taps her shoulder, finds Jinsol arching a brow, concern bleeding from her mouth. 

“Are you okay? You were taking too long and it was too dark to see anything.” She pauses, voice quieting down. “...Did you find her?” 

Jungeun sees the rest of her team catch up with her, Vivi watching with critical eyes.

She shakes her head, body beginning to tremble from the cold, keenly aware of how her clothes stick to her skin, water pooling beneath her feet. 

It works in her favour. 

Jungeun clutches her arms, curling into herself; she helps hide her heart away.

“No.”

—

Yves wakes up to bright lights, blonde and brown hair looming over her, and a dull throbbing in her side.

She blinks the haze away, groaning to sit up, blocked off by a hand pressing against her shoulder, guiding her back down. 

Her gaze flits across the room, the fireplace alight, wooden panels decorating the walls. 

She’s back at Chaewon’s. 

Her throat is dry. “How did...?” 

“I have so many things to say to you,” she squints, vision clearing to find Haseul beside her, shaking her head. “None of them are particularly nice, by the way, but I’ll save them for when you can actually take the heat. You’re just lucky to be alive.” 

Yves watches Chaewon chuckle, her laughter a welcome sound compared to Haseul’s stern tone.

“ _Barely_ , but yes.” Chaewon says, grinning, patting her shoulder. Yves notices then that she isn’t wearing her shirt — the gauze around her torso taking up most of her upper body. “At least we didn’t have to haul you back in a body bag.” 

All Yves could do is laugh, hoarse, but light, regardless of how much it aches. 

“I’m impressed, though. How did you do it?” Haseul asks, tilting her head. 

Chaewon looks on with equal curiosity, the way one of her brows arch, crossing her arms. 

Yves frowns. “...Do what?”

“You don’t know?” Creases form between Haseul’s brows. “The bridge, the escape, the timing — it was all Olivia’s idea. Hell, she even offered to snipe.” Haseul looks like she can’t even believe what she’s saying, lips curled upside down. “As to how you’ve managed to convince her to save you, though, is beyond me.” 

Their confusion makes sense. 

Yves doesn’t know, either. All she remembers is the striking pain, Hyejoo above her, menacing and demanding and— 

_(“...Y-You’re right, I don’t make mistakes.” A pained grunt, “...So what exactly am I supposed to regret if I hadn’t made any?”_

_“Me!” Hyejoo had gripped her tighter, felt her forehead press against her chest. “...Me…”)_

She doesn’t want to assume anything. But maybe— 

“Earth to Sooyoung?”

Yves isn’t sure she’s allowed to say, expose the moment Hyejoo had been anything other than fury and vengeance and regret.

She decides to keep the memory film to herself. 

“...I don’t know.” 

Haseul’s brows furrow, her lips thinned to a line. She knows better, but Yves isn’t going to break the delicate line between herself and Hyejoo. 

“Well, she _did_ mention that you two still have a score to settle before she hung up on me.” Haseul stands, dusting off her knees; her hair is wet. “I’m surprised she didn’t just leave you to drown. Probably wants to delay the ‘inevitable’ or something.” 

Yves hums. “Maybe.” 

Charwon settles beside her on the edge of the couch. “So. About agent Heart Eyes — when were you planning to tell me you have a girlfriend?” 

Yves’ startled. “She’s not my—“ 

“She helped with your escape, by the way.” Haseul intercepts, tone firm. “So she knows you’ll be fine. But you are to have no contact with her. Understood?” 

Yves’ gaze narrows, about to sit up and protest, but she winces, a jolt of pain shooting from her side. 

Haseul’s eyes soften. 

“You’ve gone rogue, and she’s compromised.” Haseul raises a hand as soon as Yves’ mouth begins to move. “By that I mean her motives for the job have been questioned by some members of her team. She’ll likely be under scrutiny now that they’re aware of her ambiguous relationship with you. They’ll want to capitalize that.” 

It’s for the best — for _both_ of them, but still. 

“...Is Choerry okay?” Yves starts, pausing. “And Jinsol?”

Haseul’s lips curve into a smile.

  
“Yeah, they’re okay.” She’s patting her arm. “And you will be, too.”

—

Jungeun doesn’t know why they need a week to decide whether she’s allowed to keep Yerim in her life, or not. 

It had been torturous, how she saw Yerim wrestle with whether or not to be as affectionate, doubt filling her gaze every time she’d ask to cuddle, receive some kisses, like Yerim isn’t sure if she’s allowed to request for them anymore. 

Yerim avoids calling her by her new name. 

Jungeun hates that the last time Yerim called her “Mommy” was when she still had worry in her voice as she watched her get dragged away to a room for questioning.

She can handle letting go of her badge, but losing Yerim, too? She won’t let that happen. Even if Vivi had already warned her about the possibility.

Jungeun stands as soon as the conference door opens, Vivi walking out, a folder slotted in her arm. 

“Here,” Jungeun’s brows furrow, watching Vivi pass it over, the weight of papers falling between her hands. “Jinsol said you managed to retrieve some data from their hard drives before everything went to hell.” 

Jungeun swallows down the surprise. She knows she didn’t do that. 

Vivi’s lips quirk up into a secret smile, like she knows that, too. 

“The amount of information we found is enough to buy you a new life and keep you under witness protection. This—“ she taps on the folder, “—is where you’ll be staying for however long it takes until we finally convince the ICA to leave you alone.” 

“But what about—“

“With Yerim.” 

Her limbs tremble with happiness — finally allowed to spill through her bones, feel it bleed across her lips, drawing a smile she can’t hold in. 

Vivi nods her head, taps her shoulder before walking past.

  
“Congratulations, Jungeun. And thank you for your service.” 

Happiness is contagious, because the moment Jungeun finds Yerim in her office, Yerim’s running towards her, laughter lighting up her face. 

She catches her, hoisting her up for a tight hug that Yerim’s all too willing to return, smothering her cheeks in kisses and giggles. 

“I guess you heard the good news?” Jinsol chimes in, a smug grin on her lips.

Jungeun pulls away, Yerim still snuggled in her arms. 

“How did you—“ she doesn’t even know where to begin, “—just, how?” 

Jinsol seems to catch on, shrugging. 

“Saving Yerim was the priority— I knew that. I also knew Yves didn’t need my help to do it, so I did what I do best. I gathered intel. Almost lost a finger, though.” She pats Yerim’s head, smiles at the way Yerim giggles. “I figured it’d come in handy knowing you probably wouldn’t want Yves to take the fall. I was right.” 

Jungeun gapes; she doesn’t know what to say. Nothing she could offer would be good enough.

Jinsol laughs, waggling her brows. “A thank you from my best friend would be nice.” 

So Jungeun does, showing her appreciation with a one-armed hug, unable to muster the words when she’s choking up on the happiness she isn’t used to feeling, tears welling up beneath her eyelids. 

Yerim’s arms encircle Jinsol’s shoulders, hears her chirpy “thank you!” too close to their ears that it nearly makes them flinch from the volume.

—

Saying goodbye is never easy. 

Jungeun didn’t think she’d have to tell Jiwoo a second time.

The first had been difficult enough. Fading away into a new life to slip into a drug cartel hadn’t exactly been easy for her to swallow. Especially when she couldn’t tell Jiwoo the truth.

When she came back six years later, it took a long time for Jiwoo to stop interacting with her like she’d disappear — constantly fussing and overly attached. 

Not that Jungeun ever minded. 

“Hey,” her fingers tighten around her phone, juggling the words that never seem to leave her mouth without a little more push. “I’m— well, I have to go away, for a while.” 

Jiwoo sounds like she already knows where this is going. _“...Again?”_

Jungeun ignores the tugging guilt in her chest, wheeling what little luggage she has into the car. 

“...Yeah.” She pauses, throat dry. “...Again.” 

Jiwoo doesn’t speak for a while, a few seconds at most. But with Jiwoo, that’s a few seconds too long. 

Jungeun doesn’t rush her. It’s not like she knows what else to say, either. 

“I got my backpack, mommy!” 

Yerim skips towards her, struggling to throw it in the back. She probably packed one too many puzzle boxes. 

Jungeun smiles, laughing as she helps her, looping her fingers under a strap and placing it next to her duffel bag. 

_“Is it weird that I’m already starting to miss you?”_ Jiwoo chuckles, _“And the cute little twerp, too.”_

Jiwoo’s trying not to cry. She can imagine her biting the inside of her cheek, mustering up a smile even when she knows she can’t see. 

Or maybe she’s just projecting. 

“I’m already starting to miss you, too.” 

_“Don’t copy me or else you’re going to have to deal with the waterworks.”_

Jungeun giggles, ignoring the tears already slipping from her eyes. At least Jiwoo can’t see. 

“Still. I mean it, Jiwoo.” She bites her lip, “I’ll miss you.”

_“Well.”_ Jiwoo pauses, imagining the way she’s probably opening and closing her mouth, struggling to choose the words tumbling on her tongue. _“I guess I’ll see you around?”_

Jungeun helps Yerim up to her seat, making sure the seat belt is snug around her. 

“Yeah,” her voice trembles, knows it gives her away as soon as she hears Jiwoo sniffle. “I’ll see you around, Jiwoo.” 

The line ends before either of them could be loud enough to hear each other cry. 

“It’s time to go, ma’am.” 

Jungeun wipes the tears off with the corner of her sleeve, nodding to the driver in aviators and a suit. 

  
When they arrive to their new home, small and quaint and coloured in the shade of purple Yerim loves, Jungeun thinks about what they’ve had to go through to get to this point.

  
The yard is doubled in size compared to their first house, already littered with flowers and a small fountain, patches of open land ready for them to do some extra gardening.

  
Yerim takes her hand as soon as they reach the bottom of the front steps, backpack dangling over her shoulders.

  
“Ready?” It’s Yerim who asks, this time.

  
Jungeun laughs, squeezing gently. “Ready.”

—

_Eight months later._

Jungeun’s accustomed to seeing Yerim’s smile every morning.

“You’re not supposed to see me, mommy!” Yerim pouts, the bundle of balloons barely hidden behind her when they’re floating well above her. “Look away!” 

Jungeun laughs, obeying, returning to setting up the table for two. 

“You know I’m also the one who paid for those, right?” 

Yerim groans. 

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you see me decorate the house with it!” She hears her scampering off, her voice echoing across the hall. “It’s still a surprise!” 

Jungeun snorts. “Okay, okay.” 

Nothing really surprises her when she’s been trained to avoid them for most of her life. At least she knows how to pretend.

She sets the birthday cake on the centre of the table, grinning at the words: “Happy birthday, Mommy!” signed with Yerim’s signature purple smiley face.

It’s decorated with streams of sunlight slipping through the windows, along with too many sprinkles on one end of the cake as opposed to the rest of it. 

Yerim clearly wasn’t prepared for the weight that came with just pouring the sprinkles from a hole in the bag that she hadn’t bothered evening out its distribution.

Jungeun stretches her arms as she heads for the front door, drawn to the sound of her mailbox clinking shut. 

The February breeze is calm and gentle, the sun high and warm; she’s not used to having her birthday feel like it’s summer. Should’ve been expected, now that she’s living on the other side of the world.

Flowers sway under her fingertips, tracing the row of colours spanning across the spectrum, taking her time to reach the wooden gate, memorizing the feel of each petal and the sun on her skin.

Jungeun watches the mailman — mail _woman_ (or was it mail _girl?_ ) continue her trek next door, her signature frog hat sitting comfortably on her head, Jungeun mouthing _thank you,_ when she turns to look.

She flips through the pile of mail for the day: a postcard Jinsol sent from Spain, another from Vivi along with a small gift box (probably another pen, as per tradition), and several brochures she couldn’t care less about.

Jungeun nearly misses the envelope beneath all the advertisements of food if not for the colour painted in the same shade of purple she knows Yerim loves so much.

The moment she sees _Yves_ written on it, Jungeun nearly drops everything else.

“How did…?”

There’s no return address, as expected, ignoring the twinge of disappointment picking at her chest. 

Her hands shake, heart racing that she can barely hear the breeze flutter through her hair, fumbling to open it.

_(Hey there, Happy Feet._

_Happy birthday. Hopefully the birth date on your profile was right, or else we might have a problem._

_I’m sorry I don’t have a gift to give you, but I’m hoping I can make it up to you one day._

_Don’t worry about writing me back. And if Choerry insists, tell her it’s my turn to write her letters. It’s about time I’ve made up for all the ones she’s written to me, don’t you think?_

_Hope you have fun on your special day,_

_— Sooyoung._

_PS: I never got a chance to thank you for saving my life, so here it is. Thank you.)_

“Mommy?” 

Jungeun jumps, almost drops the letter, clutching it to her chest.

Yerim giggles. “Sorry, mommy.” She peers at her hands, gaze drawn to the envelope. “Purple! Is that a letter?” 

Jungeun laughs, ruffling her hair. She readjusts her hold on the stack of mail, guiding her back up the steps to their home. 

“It is,” she passes it over, watching Yerim’s eyes brighten in recognition. “And I’m sure you know who it’s from.” 

“Eevee! She’s okay!” 

Jungeun chuckles, gaze flitting to her birthday cake the moment they step back into the kitchen. 

“Yeah,” reaching for the lighter, she watches the flames dance on each candle, relief and joy igniting the smile spreading across her lips. “Yeah, she’s okay.” 

  
Looks like she’ll have to come up with a new birthday wish.

—

Sooyoung’s letters arrive every once in a while after that — three, six, or even nine, months later, sealed neatly in that same shade of purple Yerim had started with, words penned for the both of them.

Most times they’d read it together, laugh along to all the little stories Sooyoung talks about on her travels. 

Sometimes, there’d be two letters instead of one, labelled with their respective names — knows they contain little secrets shared just between themselves. Nothing too extravagant, consisting of inside jokes that the other wouldn’t understand. 

...And a few a bit _too_ intimate to be seen by Yerim. 

It’s cute how different Sooyoung’s style becomes depending on who she’s addressing. 

_(Hey, Choerry._

_I went to Japan and saw a lot of your little friends. They reminded me of you, so I bought two._

_One to take with me around the world, the other just for you. Of course, only if you still want it. I’ll keep it safe until then._

_Hopefully one day you’ll get to meet my little travel buddy._

_Your Penpal,_

_— Eevee. :)_

_PS: Don’t tell your mom I’m drawing smiley faces. She might get jealous.)_

Sooyoung’s letters are often delivered by the same teenager in a neon green shirt and signature frog hat; usually found bickering with Yerim over the letters she’s trying to send.

Like today.

“I’m not going anywhere so can you at least let go?” Yerim latches on tighter, tugging her shirt. “What are you, the sun? Stop smiling; it’s getting a little creepy. You’re blinding me with your teeth.”

Jungeun knows she doesn’t have to defend Yerim, not when she’s capable of doing so herself.

Yerim just grins wider.

“ _Ugh_ , here.” She shoves the letters into Yerim’s arms, eager to walk away, deliver the rest of her mail for the day. “Now will you _please_ let go? I swear, I don’t get paid enough for this.”

Jungeun snickers, watches the teen circle around Yerim to continue her route.

—

Two years later, nothing’s really changed.

Except everything has.

The excitement still lingers with every new letter, but so does a new want — one that seems to have a hold on Yerim, too. 

It was inevitable that the joy of receiving letters grew to become a wistful need to write back — that it no longer felt good enough to be the only ones being told stories of a life they could only get to read, when they had so much to share, too. 

Jungeun sees it in the way Yerim’s shoulders droop, how the glee leaves as soon as she reads another one of Sooyoung’s goodbyes, scampering off to write her own letter before storing it in a box with all the others she can’t send. 

“Anything you want for dinner tonight, Yerim?” 

Yerim’s at her desk, scribbling in a new drawing to add to the letter Sooyoung can’t read, diligently scraping hues of purple across a canvas of white. 

“...No, it’s okay.” 

“You sure? We could get pizza.”

“I’m okay,” Yerim’s too trained on drawing a unicorn to bother turning in her chair, “whatever you want, mommy. I can eat it.” 

She leans against the doorframe, settles for watching Yerim pluck every colour out of her box of crayons to add in a rainbow. 

Jungeun knows what she’s itching to tell: how she’s made new friends with the help of chocolates, the fact that her hair is no longer purple, how the teacher said she’d make a great class president — and was right. 

“Pizza it is, then.” Jungeun says, before coming up behind Yerim to kiss the crown of her head. “When you’re done, we’ll go binge watch Harry Potter again, okay?” 

This time, Yerim turns to her, cheeky smile lighting up her face. 

—

It isn’t until her phone rings at the end of another month filled with letters from Sooyoung that Jungeun’s given an opportunity to finally be able to do more than wallow at the thought of not being able to write back.

The unlisted number has Jungeun springing up from the bed, heart racing for the voice she’s only ever been able to hear in her head.

“Hello?” 

_“You sound excited,”_ Haseul’s voice is the one that greets her instead, makes her shoulders deflate. _“Come on, don’t go being sad, now. I can hear your disappointment over the line.”_

Jungeun doesn’t acknowledge the truth. “What do you want, _now?_ ” 

_“How’s it like living the normal life?”_ Papers shuffle in the background, _“Is it as comfortable and quiet as I imagine it’d be?”_

Jungeun settles back on the bed, looking out the window; trees tower over their garden, life filled with a variety of colours that Jungeun’s still getting accustomed to seeing.

“...It is,” she pauses, ignores how despite the spectrum of flowers that bloom in their backyard, none of the thorns on their stems are as sharp as the missing space left behind by Sooyoung. “Now what do you want?” 

_“Cold,”_ Haseul laughs, though there’s no malice behind it. _“Not even going to ask me how I’m doing?”_

Jungeun doesn’t know how Sooyoung deals with her. “How did you get my number?” 

_“Kahei,”_

“Why would my own boss give my new phone number to an ICA Handler?” 

_“You mean ex-boss_ , _and because we’re trading a few inside secrets.”_ Haseul starts, _“Don’t worry, it’s for the greater good. I assure you.”_

Jungeun’s still sceptical, “Right,” 

She hears small chatter squeezing through the background; they’re too muffled for her to discern. 

_“I’m calling to inform you that you’ll be receiving two plane tickets in the mail, tomorrow.”_ She pauses, _“That is, if you want them.”_

“...So _you’re_ the one sending stuff my way?” 

_“Of course. I can’t have Sooyoung knowing where you two live; she wouldn’t be able to resist, considering how she follows her heart more than her head.”_ Haseul’s words are familiar, makes Jungeun’s yearning that much harder to ignore. _“She writes the letters, though. Obviously. I’m just the middleman.”_

“And those plane tickets are for what?”

Haseul’s laughter is light, _“For you and for the little one, of course.”_

Jungeun wants nothing more than to wring Haseul’s neck, rattle the answers out of her.

“That’s not what I meant,” Jungeun sighs, massaging her temple. “Just hurry up, Haseul.” 

_“Okay, geez. Clearly the normal life hasn’t made you any softer.”_ The sound of a pen scribbling against paper makes it through the line, _“They’re tickets to Paris.”_

“Paris?” Jungeun frowns, “Why would we fly to Paris?” 

_“It’s a gift,”_ Haseul stops, clearing her throat. _“And an apology.”_

Jungeun can’t help but parrot again. “Apology?”

_“For that time,”_ Haseul sounds like she’s trying to still find the words for it, a moment of silence following her syllables before she’s speaking again. _“You know. The set up.”_

A table filled with assassins sharing one target— how could she forget?

Jungeun laughs. “Didn’t think you had it in you,” 

_“Yeah, well. This is more for Sooyoung than anything else.”_ She swears she could hear Haseul smiling over the phone. _“But it’s still for you, too. If you want it.”_

Sounds like Sooyoung isn’t the only one who often follows her heart, Jungeun thinks, catching the words before they could leave her mouth. 

“And what’s so special in Paris that you’re willing to go through all this trouble?” 

_“Must I spell it out for you?”_

The smugness in Haseul’s voice doesn’t make her any less irritating. But the implication in her question is more than enough to make the frustration disappear — and have her heart race all over again. 

Jungeun tries not to let happiness spill too much from her lips. “But what about Vivi? I’m under witness protection, I can’t just fly away and—“ 

_“She’s the one who approved of this, actually.”_ Haseul says, her tone playful and sly. _“Thanks to our constant exchange of trade secrets and damning intel being leaked, the ICA has more things to worry about than trying to find a single mother who used to be part of the National Intelligence Agency.”_

Jungeun’s both curious and afraid to ask about what exactly made the mark on her head be put on the back burner. 

Haseul goes on as if she could read her mind. 

_“It was your director. She was an undercover operative of Providence, and the last living mole that had infiltrated the ICA a few years ago.”_ She doesn’t seem to want to say more, summarizing it quickly. _“Nothing really relevant to you, of course. Just know that the ICA’s priority has shifted back to its main objective.”_

Sounds like her agency had merely been used to take on the ICA in Providence’s place.

“...Was?” 

_“Kahei’s the director, now. So.”_

“Of course.”

_“Well. That’s all I have for you. Two tickets, your decision.”_ Haseul stops, hears the way concern seeps between each syllable. _“Sooyoung will always be on the run, though, but I’m sure you knew that already.”_

She does. 

The call ends, dial tone greeting her back.

—

Just like Haseul said, the plane tickets arrive.

Sealed in a white crisp envelope, she plucks two tickets to find they’re scheduled two days from now; without a return flight.

It’s a commitment she can’t decide on her own.

“Mommy?” Yerim tilts her head, curious eyes watching her from the sofa. “Why do you look like you’re thinking too hard?”

Jungeun laughs, settling down beside her, tucking Yerim’s hair behind her ear; it’s gotten longer. “I guess it’s because I am,”

“What are you thinking about?”

She passes the tickets to Yerim, lets her gaze wander across the letters, decipher for herself the words she knows she’ll understand.

Jungeun juggles the syllables on her tongue, lets them spill over carefully as Yerim turns to her with wide, hopeful, eyes. “We can go see her again,”

“…But?” Yerim’s always been sharp with catching the subtle tones in her voice.

“We’re going to always be moving,” Jungeun pauses, imagines how much Yerim could miss out on a regular school life. “We won’t be able to stay in one place for too long. You might not even have enough time to make new friends before we’d have to move, again. Is that something you’re okay with?”

Yerim’s eyes drift back to the plane tickets.

“I’m used to being moved around; things never really stay the same. My friends always end up leaving me.” She starts, gaze lifting to meet hers, a smile curling across her lips. Jungeun knows she’s referring to her life back at the orphanage. “I don’t care about where we’ll stay, or where we’ll go. I just care about staying with _you._ ”

“Yerim…”

Her smile grows into a cheeky grin. “And with Eevee, too.”

Jungeun stretches her arms out for a hug, laughing when Yerim doesn’t hesitate to lunge, burrow against her; she feels the same way.

  
She wouldn’t want to be anywhere else except with them.

—

Time passes fast when she’s not thinking about how much she’s missing. 

The thought of not spending every second with Jungeun and Choerry often cripples her for days, doing nothing but writing drafts of letters that never seems to be good enough, the words always managing to escape her. 

So anything that could distract her mind from watching memory reels of a family of two is always welcomed. 

_“You know, it’s a shame you’re not my problem anymore.”_

Yves snorts at the way Haseul sighs like she’s lost something precious. Maybe she did - but it’s not like she’s truly gone. 

“I was a problem?” 

_“Not really. But I did end up losing a great agent, which is the problem.”_ Haseul chuckles, _“Now all I’ve got is Olivia and I wasn’t expecting her to have such a temper — and absolutely_ no _sophistication. Did you know she doesn’t even bother letting me finish briefing her on assignments before she hangs up?”_

“It takes practice,” Yves leans back against the chair, taking a sip of her coffee. “I wasn’t great, either. And overly eager to get the job done.” 

_“No, you weren’t. You were perfect.”_ Admiration is easy to discern in Haseul’s voice. It doesn’t come often, but when it does, Yves could never miss it. _“Now that the mushy stuff is out of the way, I hope you’ve been taking care of yourself.”_

She laughs. “Of course. Though I’m still having a little trouble writing another letter.” 

_“How romantic,”_ Haseul pauses, _“And so mundane. I never thought I’d ever hear you say something like that.”_

Yves snorts. “Me neither.” 

Yves rakes her hand through her hair, red strands flitting between the spaces of her fingers, continuing to pretend she’s busy reading the newspaper and not the woman a few feet away from her. 

_“Anyways, did you get the letter?”_

“I did,” Yves readjusts her hold on her phone, staring at the envelope on her lap that’s too clean, too white— crisp like it’s just been sealed, _Kim Hyunjin_ written in black ink. “You opened it.” 

_“Wouldn’t want the recipient to see her blood; at least, not until she starts reading the letter.”_ Haseul’s voice is softer than usual, _“Found her?”_

Yves’ shielded beneath a red and white patterned umbrella at the front porch of a small cafe, watching Heejin serve an elderly couple a gentle smile and a croissant. 

“Yeah,” 

_“Good. It took me a while to figure out where she is. She was surprisingly difficult to find.”_

Yves flips over the letter. “Where did you even get this?”

_“When I went out to save you, the first time.”_ Yves remembers it all too well — and how Haseul hadn’t bothered to tell her she had a gun until much later. _“I told you, I had a little side job of my own, didn’t I? Now go on. You know what to do.”_

The line clicks.

Yves pockets her phone, raises her cup, swallows the rest of her coffee before standing, leaving her tip and Hyunjin’s letter behind just as Heejin approaches her table. 

She doesn’t get very far, though. Only manages to make it halfway down the sidewalk before someone’s yelling. 

“Wait!” 

Yves ignores it at first, hoping that her blatant indifference, or feigned ignorance, is enough to deter Heejin from following her. After all, there’s nothing else for her to offer other than the letter. 

Heejin’s persistence reminds her of Hyunjin. “I said wait!” 

Yves turns, lulled by the familiarity to find Heejin hunched over, breathless. The letter is in her hand, her tight grip wrinkling white. 

“This—“ she huffs, raising the letter. “—This isn’t her handwriting,” 

Considering Haseul went through the trouble of finding a new envelope to seal it in, Yves isn’t surprised. 

They must’ve written to each other often enough for Heejin to recognize Hyunjin’s penmanship. 

“I know,” Yves watches Heejin’s gaze lower, sees disappointment burrow between her brows, crinkling skin. “But it’s still her letter.”

Heejin perks up, staring at the envelope, emotions clouding her eyes. 

Yves doesn’t expect a request. 

“Will you read it for me?” 

She frowns. “...Why?” 

“So I won’t hear it in her voice,” Heejin pauses, still sounding like she’s trying to catch her breath. “I-I’ll hear her in my head if I read it.” 

Yves doesn’t point out the stutter. 

She complies. 

_(Hi,_

_There’s a lot I want to say, but I only have time for one._

_Eat lots of bread for me._

_Always yours,_

_— Aeongie.)_

“Stupid,” Heejin says, tears threatening to spill from her eyelids. “Even when she’s writing her last words, she’s still stupid enough to call herself that.” 

Yves doesn’t speak, fingers itching to do something, anything, offer some form of comfort, but she’s never been good at that. 

Heejin takes the letter back, slipping it into the envelope. 

It’s hard to miss how Heejin had constantly tried to avoid the splotches of red in Hyunjin’s writing, eyes never staying too long at the penned words; it’s no wonder she’d rather hide it away. 

“...She’s really gone, isn’t she?” 

Yves can see how Heejin’s looking at her for confirmation — as if the letter wasn’t already more than enough. 

“Yes.”

Heejin scoffs, running her hand through her hair — locks of light brown and highlights of gold slipping between her fingers. 

“She couldn’t have come up with anything better to say?” Heejin’s ranting, but there’s only sorrow on her tongue, lips trembling as if to hold it in. “Not even an ‘I love’—“ she pauses, inhaling sharply. “...It’s always bread, with her.” 

Yves doesn’t know how to deal with a breakdown, much less one that’s as emotionally driven as the tremors in Heejin’s hands, spotting the envelope nearly slip from her grip. 

“You must be one of her assassin friends,” she starts, “are you Yves?”

Yves’ mind whirs to a stop. 

Heejin chuckles. 

“She told me about her second life. And how much she hated it.” She smiles, hides away the tears welling up in her eyes. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell. She’d just often mention you whenever she’d see an apple.” 

Yves doesn’t know how to feel about that, pretending it doesn’t stir a whirlwind in her chest.

Heejin seems to notice.

“She said she’d like to run away with me, travel around the world.” Heejin’s rambling again — maybe it’s her way of coping, shifting topics. “Meet all sorts of cats and taste every bread the universe has to offer.”

Yves snorts. “Sounds like Hyunjin,” 

“Sounds like an idiot.” Heejin says, but it’s not hard to hear the fondness in her voice — and the heartbreak. “Thanks, by the way. For the letter – and for giving her that apple.” 

Yves watches her go, turning for home once Heejin’s disappeared behind the cafe doors.

_—_

_“So they were going to run away together, huh.”_

Yves hums, dumping her keys on the table, flicking on the television, leaving the news to play in the background.

“Yeah,” Yves heads for the kitchen, grabbing a glass cup, pouring water as she juggles the phone between her ear and shoulder. “It’s too bad, though. Heejin seems nice.”

_“Easy, there.”_ Haseul giggles, _“I know the normal life is boring, but no need to play Casanova.”_

Yves snorts. “I just meant she seems to have a good head on her shoulders; resilient even when she’d rather just cry.”

_“You got all this within ten minutes of talking to her?”_

Yves chuckles. “I guess so.”

The doorbell rings when she’s halfway out of her jacket, readjusting her phone on her shoulder.

She wasn’t expecting company. 

_“Well, sounds like that’s my cue to go.”_

Yves frowns, struggling to fit on her jacket again. “What? What do you mean that’s your—“ 

The line ends, dial tone ringing into her ear.

_Damn it Haseul,_ Yves thinks, pocketing her phone, walking towards the door. 

No one should know where she lives, minus Haseul, and she’s been careful enough to be forgettable — constantly on the move, never staying in the same place twice.

She doesn’t get visitors to her home, preferring to meet up at public establishments where it’s easy to get lost in the crowd.

Yves leans against the door, peeks through the peephole, expecting maybe the mailman, or some young adult looking to make a door-to-door sale— and freezes.  
  


Their names get stuck in her throat.

Her hair is blonde, now. No longer the shade of brown she’s used to seeing in memory films when the night feels particularly lonely and all she has for company are flickers of images she’s already dreamed of, before. 

The little girl by her side has grown so much in the mere span of two years; taller, now, the strands on her head taking on it’s natural hue of brown instead of the usual purple.

Her hand stays frozen around the knob, afraid to turn it in fear that if she shifts back, looks away for that split second it takes to open the door, that they’d disappear.

The bell rings again.

Their voices make her breath hitch; she’s forgotten the minute details — the way Choerry’s still has that familiar lilt, innocent and full of wonder. 

_“What if she’s not home, mommy?”_

Jungeun’s never fails to make her heart race.

_“Then we’ll come back and try again later, okay?”_

Yves jolts the moment they start to leave, twisting the knob and yanking hard, frantic to make them stop — have them stay. 

Stay.

  
Stay.

_  
Stay._

  
It’s hard to catch her breath when they twist back around, meeting their eyes.   
  


She struggles to find her voice. “H-How—?” 

Jungeun’s just as frozen as she had been behind the door, watching the way her eyes slowly widen, her gaze swirling with colours Yves knows reflect her own: from blue relief to yellow surprise, green uncertainty, and longing red.

Jungeun’s lips fall open as if to speak, but nothing comes out — like she’s trying to find her voice. 

Choerry breaks the silence, first.

“Eevee!” 

She lunges, Yves barely managing to catch her breath a second time as Choerry’s arms circle her stomach, feeling her nuzzle closer, her smile just as bright as the first time she’s gotten to see it.

Yves falls to her knees, wrapping her arms around her, pretending she doesn’t feel the tears well up in her eyes at how Choerry squeezes her back like she can’t believe she’s holding her, too.

To think the last time she’d seen her had been when she watched her get further away, crying out her name on Jinsol’s shoulder — 

“Did you miss me, Eevee?” 

— she can’t wait to replace it with new moments of happiness Choerry deserves to have.

Yves laughs, swallows the tears down because she can’t cry. Not yet. 

She holds on tighter. “...I did, so much.”

Choerry cheers, feels the way her voice gets muffled by her neck. “Missed you too, Eevee!” 

Yves doesn’t know how long it takes before another set of arms encircle around her, feels them envelope the both of them in a hug. 

Blonde strands fill her vision. 

“Didn’t think you were the type to cry, Sooyoung.” 

Jungeun’s smile is tempting to taste, but more than anything, she just wants to hold her, lifting one arm to wrap around Jungeun’s back. 

“And you’re just as much of a crybaby as I thought you’d be,” Yves quips, watching the tears cascade down her cheeks.

They stay there for a little while, just holding onto each other, Jungeun’s laughter getting buried away with Choerry’s giggles. Yves strains to memorize everything: this feeling, their touch, this moment.

“Can I go see Little Eevee?” Choerry asks, pulling back.

Yves grins, ruffling her hair, nodding towards the door. “Of course.” 

Choerry skips inside ahead of them, doesn’t bother waiting for her mother’s approval, scampering off to explore the apartment, hearing her _ooh’s_ and _aah’s_ as she disappears into the living room. 

“Sorry,” Jungeun starts as soon as they stand, dusting her knees. “She gets a little too excited, sometimes.” 

“I know,” Yves can’t help but reach out, wipe off the tear tracks that scar Jungeun’s skin. “…How did you even find me?” 

“Your Handler considers this an apology,” Jungeun leans into her touch, lifting a basket of blueberry muffins. “She really didn’t tell you?”  
  


Yves laughs, stepping forward. “She usually never does; until it’s too late, at least.”

Jungeun tucks her hair back behind her ear. “...I hope you don’t mind surprises, then.”

How could she when the surprise is _them?_

“If I had known you two were coming, I’d have cleaned up the place a little better.” Yves scratches at her nape, sheepish. “It’s not like there’s much, but still. I’d like to at least give you two something more than this.”

Most of her things are packed away in a duffel bag in case of emergencies, and all she ever orders are take-outs so the kitchen never really gets used. Empty and arguably lifeless.

“This is enough,” Jungeun’s fingers feel like fire on her skin, tracing her cheek, the slopes of her jaw, down to the crook of her neck. “We’re not here for anything else except this.”

Yves’ glad Jungeun doesn’t say _you_ , because she doesn’t think her knees could handle the weight of it.

But it’s all she needs to hear to move forward, capture lips that have already begun to lean in, meet Jungeun halfway. 

“I’m still here, you know!”

They jolt apart, shying away as Choerry runs back to them, the Eevee stuffed toy nestled safely in her arms. 

Yves shares a look with Jungeun, laughing at the embarrassed smile painting across her face.

She takes Jungeun’s hand, ushering Choerry back in. “Come on, let’s go try those blueberry muffins.”

She thinks she could get used to this, watching Jungeun weave through the kitchen, Choerry keeping her company atop the counter, legs swinging beneath her.

Just before she closes the door, Yves can’t help but feel something different, like she’s being watched, scanning the buildings across from her. 

And then she sees it:

  
Hyejoo, perched on the rooftop of an apartment complex, sniper rifle steady against her elbow, one eye gazing through the scope.

Yves wonders how long she has before Hyejoo finally pulls the trigger.

“Sooyoung?”

Yves can’t help but turn to Jungeun, a muffin in her hand, weak at the sound of her voice that she’s just gotten used to hearing, again.

She doesn’t want to look back; she doesn’t want to check if Hyejoo’s still there, ready to finish the job, because if she does, a bullet might be the last thing she ever gets to see. 

But Yves twists to look, anyway. She’s never been the type to run away.

Hyejoo is gone.

  
“Sooyoung?” Jungeun’s by her side, cradling her cheek, ushers her to turn away from the rooftop where Hyejoo used to be. “What’s wrong?”

  
Yves is grateful to be given a chance.

  
She shifts, gripping Jungeun’s hand, turning to kiss her palm, smiles at the way Jungeun always gets flustered at her touch.

  
“It’s nothing.”

—

Olivia remembers clutching the rifle against her chest, ducking behind the walled guard rail, letting the tension of nearly pulling the trigger spill out of her skin, fingers still trembling at the sight of Yves meeting her gaze.

It felt like she was waiting for her to do it.

“So, what brings you to Paris?” 

Olivia recalls the way Yves looked at her; ready to die, yet still hopeful to live.

“I came to finish a job,” 

“And?” She glances at the name tag, reads _Heejin,_ in her head. “Did you?” 

Olivia contemplates why she’s even bothering to continue a conversation with the chatty waitress. Maybe it’s because she’s got nothing else to do, anymore.

“...No.” 

“Why not?” 

Olivia watches her make her drink, steady and trained hands skillfully moving from one ingredient to another. 

“I didn’t feel like it.” 

Heejin laughs, clicking the cap on, sliding the cup towards her. “Lucky. I wish I could do that.”

“Right,” Olivia thinks back to Yves and her new-found family, remembers the way they had held each other at the door. “Lucky.” 

She didn’t think Yves still had it in her to cry.

Olivia leaves with the cup in her hand, a bittersweet conflict weighing on her chest, lighter than the tunnel-vision anger she used to always have.

  
She dials the number she had fought so hard to get.

_“Olivia? Where the hell are you and why haven’t you been answering my calls?”_

“I’m in Paris. I came to kill Yves.” Olivia hears Haseul hold her breath; she’s clearly not used to falling one step behind. “...And I’ve changed my mind.”

_“Wh—“_

“Don’t ask me why,” she cuts in, bringing the cup to her lips. “Just hurry up and give me a new assignment so I can get out of here before I change my mind. _Again_.”

She ends the call, shoving it into her pocket and heading back towards her hotel room.

As long as Yves treats them right, then she supposes she could let her live, have a chance at a family, learn how it’s like to be a part of one.

She just hopes she’ll never see them again; if only so she won’t have to make the same mistake of sparing Yves’ life, a second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 41,448 words. Editing this was such a pain, I swear - I probably still have many to fix. But more than anything, I'm glad to be able to say that this is complete. Reading your responses last chapter had me so excited to finish the rest of the story. Seeing your guesses on how this could end delighted me. I'm relieved that it looks like no one managed to see what was coming; took a lot of effort to keep Jungeun's identity a secret. 
> 
> I want to thank @_zoeves over on Twitter again for all of the beautiful artwork. They never fail to make me feel so soft. I will always be especially grateful to you.
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading this to the end; I'm going to really miss writing for this story.
> 
> Merry Belated Christmas, Happy Holidays, and have an advanced Happy New Year! Hope you've enjoyed this update. Until next time. 
> 
> PS: Why Not era had so much Lipves, I almost couldn't believe it.


End file.
